Beating my face against a keyboard.

[SPC] Lace and Awkwardness.

2009-12-22T22:52:14Z

Title: Lace and Awkwardness.
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Howell, Molly
Genre: Western? check. alternate-universe? check.
Rating: G. No, cross-dressing doesn't require PG. Grow up.
Notes: I blame lameep. Just.... yeah. I thought this was lost, but apparently LJ saved it. VIVA MOTHERLAND.

"Ow... ow..."

Frances hesitated in the stairwell, peeking out into the bar. This was terrible. No, this was definitely the worst. But he owed Molly a favor, and Howell, damn that man, had encouraged it. "Do it" he had said, laughing. "You need to live a little, Frances. Have a little fun with it."

Live a little. Have fun. Right. Frances figured he did enough living, with all the bad spots he and Howell got into, and enough having fun with the copious amounts of alcohol he drank from Molly's bar.

And just why, anyway, hadn't Molly asked him to bartend, anyway? She had given him a stern look, and shook her head, and Frances, for the life of him, couldn't figure out what that meant. But he'd been whisked upstairs by one of Molly's employees, wrapped in measuring tape and clucked over and eventually his body had been forced and pressed into this... this...

"Mademoiselle, get out here and wait tables already!"

Oh how he didn't want to. How he wanted to run upstairs, tear this confection off, and throw himself from the window.

But he was a man of his word, and would not withhold assistance from a comrade. They were all proletariats after all, and they had to help each other out. Pretty soon Santa Fe would be just a memory, Howell had said, and none of these drunks would recognize him anyway, not with his hair piled high on his head and his cheeks rouged so thoroughly.

The substitute Mademoiselle stepped out of the hall, dusty trail-worn boots hidden under layers of petticoats and a soft brown dress, waist cinched down to a mere 26 inches, the low bodice of the dress modestly covered by a deep red scarf. Weather-worn hands, callused from travels, were hidden in delicate cotton gloves that went up to cover tanned arms, ending in a fine spray of lace ruffles. The substitute's lips were stained deep red, eyes lined in kohl and cheeks swept with powder and a smudging of dirt from the Walatowa pueblo.

But Frances had scarcely gotten halfway across the room before he felt a hand trying to seek through the bustle of the dress, and he turned sharply, startled, before realizing he was supposed to keep up the act as well. "You can't touch, naughty boy~" he said in the highest voice he could manage (despite the tight compression of the corset), laughing weakly.

"The mademoiselle is new to the area, and here as a favor. You'll have to just settle for looking tonight, gents." Molly called, lining up some glasses on the counter. "Four scotches, two on rocks, to table five. Step lively, it's busy tonight!"

Frances thought he might actually die from this, above everything else.

[ORIGINAL] Nightly News.

2009-12-09T05:28:09Z

Title: Nightly News
Series: Probably a one-shot.
Characters: Cassie and her parents.
Genre: Post-apocalyptic.
Rating: G. Because I'm a bastard and would let my seven year old kid read about nuclear apocalypse.
Notes: Let me be the first to say, nuclear war scares the piss out of me. For fucking serious. Fuck monsters under the bed, I was afraid of some unknown entity dropping the Goddamn bomb on my head. Anyway. I got this idea this past weekend, when I was at the casino putting gas in my car. The valley was kinda smoggy and I wondered if they still had no-burn nights. Here, the meterologists decide whether it's okay to run your fireplace, because due to the local geography and weather patterns, we occasionally get absolutely no airflow through the valley and smog ensues. And we fucking hate smog.

Anyway. It's crap. But here it is anyway. I HOPE IT'S AT LEAST A SMIDGE CREEPY.

Cassie had never caught the nightly news before.

She lay on her stomach in the living room, doing problems out of her math workbook. Her mother was busily knitting something, and her dad sat in an old, ratty recliner, bottle in hand, eyes watery and bloodshot. He drank a lot, to forget the war, but he never hit Cassie or her mom, never really raised his voice even. He just sat most nights, drinking, and in the morning he would get up and put his astronaut suit on and go to work, and he'd come home at night carrying the wet suit in a bucket and holding a fresh bottle in his hand.

Cassie's mom took the bottles with the recycling every Sunday. Cassie had written on the label once, to see if they ever came back, and one day it had, and she had been so happy that she hadn't wanted to let go of it.

The weatherman was finishing up a report, something about rain coming, and Cassie tuned it out, tapping her cheek with the eraser of her pencil and pondering just what y could be. The lottery jingle came up, and she looked up to see if it was her lucky number - 9 - but it wasn't this time. Oh well. There was another lottery on Friday.

The lottery commercial faded out, and another notice came up, this one with a picture of a festive-looking fireplace on a green background, and the TV station's logo.

"It is okay to burn in your fireplace or woodburning stove, in Bernalillo County this evening."

Cassie heard a quiet sob, and looked over her shoulder at her mother, her dear mother, with a thin hand over her mouth and the knitting in her lap. Her dad looked over, then shook his head, lips pulled in a tight, grim little line.

"What?"

"Cassie.. that announcement is older than you. Maybe older than us."

"...So?"

Her dad put the bottle down on the table and folded his hands across his belly. He'd always had a big belly, but now everything else about him was thin, except for his belly, bulging over his belt.

"Once upon a time, princess, people didn't live underground and commute to work in tunnels, like rabbits. Once upon a time, we lived above ground. Now we gotta live in these shelters, these caves, and if anyone actually did light a fire down here, we would all probably die from the fire eating all the oxygen, if it didn't burn down the house and every other house in the Warren first."

Cassie blinked, looking at the window. The window was a false-motion beach, with rippling waves and shimmering palm trees.

"So why do they still run it?"

"Because there are people who still live Above, who sealed their houses and still have fireplaces. They're the scientists and they're trying to figure out a way to cool down the radiation so we can go back up there. But if they burn their fireplaces on certain nights, the particulates collect fallout in the atmosphere and it rains onto the surface again."

"But mostly they just run it to make us feel better, to make us nostalgic. It's supposed to give us a sense of normalcy." Her mom said quietly, wiping her eyes and picking up the knitting again.

Cassie didn't know much about the war, about the cultists, about those who had tried to bring about the Rapture through nuclear weapons and fire. But she realized, little by little, what coping and survival were in this world.

[SPC] Caught in the Storm

2009-12-05T06:37:25Z

Title: Caught in the Storm
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Howell, and Molly.
Genre: You probably already know this. Western alternate-universe magical realism.
Rating: G.
Notes: I'm sick and sad and listening to stuff that lettershark posted for music. Weeee.

There was something about these summer storms that he loved, had always loved. Frances lived for the rainy season.

Long ago, he had anticipated it and dreaded it at once. The yard would flood, General Sherman would buck and cry and try to get away, and the chickens would hide in their coop. A few times, lightning hit objects in the yard and startled everyone, but Frances, by and large, was lucky in that the storms rarely did damage.

He saw tornados rarely; sometimes, distantly, he'd see one. But they were so close to the mountains that he had never believed they would actually come here.

He'd never been in Santa Fe for the storms, though, and being so close to the church, surrounded by buildings, he had almost missed it. Almost.

But the sun shone differently, almost startlingly bright, and Frances shaded his eyes as he walked. His clothes clung to his body, drenched in sweat, and his hair fell limply around his face. The satchel dangled from his fingers, swaying, precarious and promising to drop into the dust to be forgotten. The pain in his feet was dulled by the repetitive motion of walking; yet, his shoes were so thin and worn that he felt every cobblestone jabbing up against his arches.

"You'll not outshine it. It's no longer your time."

Frances blinked. Howell had been quiet for a while, and Frances assumed that it was for the same reason as his own silence: it was just too damn hot to speak. He turned his head, looking at his friend, and only now did he see it, looming up over the buildings, heavy and deep blue and pregnant with rain.

"It's going to rain."

"Yeah. A mass baptism, in rain and lightning. We'll stay in and talk to Molly. I have something for her." Howell replied, reaching up to rake his fingers through his hair. "Besides that, my head is killing me."

Frances didn't bother to hide the wry smile. "It's a hangover, sir, and heatstroke."

"It's time to recharge one's spirits, with more spirits. That's what. Walk faster, I'll buy you a round." Howell stopped at a busy corner for a wagon to pass, before lurching into the crowded street, and Frances followed. No sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity for alcohol, after all.

They made it to the bar long before the sun was obscured, and Frances sat at the far end, nursing a glass of wine while Howell and Molly retreated to a table in a dark corner. Frances felt that he had a lot to think about, but with half the glass down, he couldn't really remember what. He gazed at the deep red liquid, oblivious to the world around him save his immediate person and the satchel hanging hooked off his shoe.

One by one, more people wandered in, seeking shelter from the imminent storm, ringing the bar and taking up the tables to chat about news from the trail, news around town, gossip about so-and-so and this-and-that. Howell and Molly were discussing something animatedly in the back corner, and Frances would have remained just where he was if not for the sudden boom over head, and the rattling of the bottles on the shelves.

A few seconds later, some women with shawls over their heads rushed in, voices both alarmed and laughing, shaking the water off on their fringes, and Frances emptied the glass down his throat, stood, and walked to the door.

Outside, the downpour had started, water rushing over the town in wind-driven sheets, soaking to the bone everyone foolish enough to be caught in it. The horses tethered to the posts near the door stamped their feet and whinnied, and across the park, under the overhangs of the Palace of the Governors, Indian merchants wrapped up their wares and stood watching the rain. Mothers herded their children to shops, and Frances crouched under the wooden overhang, formerly shading the sun out of the windows, and now, only shading the rain from his shoulders.

He could see the clouds, low and dark grey and heavy, the rain pouring out of them in great drops that could drench a man in moments. Lightning arched across the sky, momentary flashes of brilliance that seemed remote and strange until seconds later, when the world shook under his feet and the thunder filled his ears. He could see the church from here, hear the single bell ringing weirdly with every clap of thunder, and the people rushing to it, in a desperate attempt to get out of the storm.

The world was crashing, roaring, drumming, pattering and shouting men and scolding mothers and laughing girls and the ring of the churchbell, and Frances could hardly breathe through the cacophony, the vibrance and beauty of it all.

He felt alive, energized, and he stood up and stepped out into the storm.

Howell and Molly had finished their meeting and returned to the bar, Molly cleaning up after the storm-induced rush and Howell telling tales to a sharply-dressed man from Missouri, whose face got redder and eyes got wider the more Howell poured alcohol and legends on him. Molly looked up when the door opened and a drowned-looking skeleton of a man walked in, long brown hair dripping onto the floor, but Howell merely kept talking until she tapped his arm with a glass.

Howell looked over the Missourian's shoulder. "Look what the cat dragged in! Where've you been?"

Pale hands came up and pushed wet hair behind his ears, and Frances shrugged. "I went out for a bit. Just felt like it."

"Go wring yourself out and come back when you aren't soaking the floor." Molly called, tossing a dry bartowel at Frances.

Frances nodded and complied, standing just outside and toweling off before coming back in. He went to the bar and sat next to Howell, grabbing the mug of hot tea as soon as it was placed in front of him.

Howell turned and looked at him. "You still look like a rooster that's been drowned and raised again. Did you do anything fun?"

"In a sense. I'll explain later, finish your story, what did you do when the rabbit leapt at you?" Frances took a drink and looked over at the strange man, who was clinging to the bar for dear life by now. Christ, he thought. How long has Howell been working this poor sap over?

"I already told you this one... I think... nevermind, I like this story. So I grab an ember from the fire, and brandish it like a sword...." Howell turned back to the Missourian, and Frances slumped over his tea.

He would explain later, when he had words to, but he couldn't convey the energy and brilliance he had felt in that storm, though if he had tried, Howell would have just nodded and understood, surely.

[SPC] Side Work

2009-12-01T04:53:42Z

Title: Side Work
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Howell, random misc people, mention of Molly
Genre: Western alternate universe steampunk etc etc etc
Rating: G until further notice.
Notes: I had this idea when I was in class earlier tonight, forgot it, dozed off in class, got it back, forgot it, and got it back again. But it mutated because I got distracted and pissed off halfway through. OH WELL.

The wind had kicked up, blowing down from the clouds to sweep through the canyon, making the leaves rustle and the grasses bow. A fine red dust covered everything, including the two shabbily-dressed men walking into the tiny town. Despite the heat of the day, they wore many layers, and the younger of the two had wrapped a cloth around his face, blocking the dust from choking him.

Thunder rumbled distantly, somewhere to the north and hidden by the mountains, and Frances wondered when it would rain. All summer they had wandered, and thankfully the summer storms had finally arrived. Howell was talking about some terrible birds that lived in the sky, great and fearsome creatures whose screams were hidden by the thunder, and Frances nodded, looking at the clouds furtively. When had he begun to believe his friend's drunken ramblings?

His thoughts were broken when he heard a wooden door creak open on an adobe house by the side of the road, and he turned just in time to see a woman awkwardly carrying some sort of metal contraption, with wires sticking out the top. She walked to the side of the road, dropping the metal box unceremoniously and dusting off her hands, then looked at the men, only just noticing them. "Afternoon, gentlemen." she said, nodding her head.

"Afternoon, ma'am. What's the box, pray tell?" Frances asked, grabbing the back of Howell's jacket.

"fiercely protective of their young, an' wicked to anything what comes nea- hey!" Howell said, looking over his shoulder. "What?"

"It's the bleeding radio, it's on the blink again. The darn thing picks up nothing but screams and howling every time I try to get the news, during these blasted thunderstorms." She responded, poking the box with the toe of her boot.

"Screams and howling?"

"Shhh! Well, perhaps the tubes are just a bit dirty or something." Frances said, crouching down and opening the tab. The metal side fell open, and he gingerly poked at the components inside.

"NO, YOU FOOL. We have to see what it's picking up first." Howell pushed Frances aside, closed the side of the radio, and ran into the house, leaving Frances and the confused woman to follow him.

They found him in the kitchen, turning the crank furiously and twisting the dial. Sure enough, all it found was static and screaming, and occasionally very loud voices came through, with snippets of nonsensical conversation.

"It's always like that..." the woman said, covering her ears. "I can't get anything during these awful storms."

"Howell, what in the world are you doing?" Frances shouted, trying to be heard over the infernal din.

Howell stopped, pulling a tiny nub of chalk out of his pocket. "Damn thing's possessed... I've done this dozens of times."

"Howell!"

"Alright, alright, maybe I haven't. No sense in giving up without trying." Howell replied cheerfully, drawing a circle on the table around the radio.

"What are you doing to the table, that's oakwood!" The woman cried, moving to grab Howell's wrist. He avoided her, shook his arms, and kept drawing the symbols, muttering to himself.

Frances pulled the woman back to the doorway. "He's... well, he's a wandering priest. Of sorts. He does exorcisms and... such. Give him a chance to-"

A wretched scream cut Frances off, followed by an enormous clap of thunder, and the ceiling shuddered, vigas shaking in warning before the room was filled with light.

Frances woke up a good fifteen minutes later, outdoors, to raindrops on his face. Howell was laughing, which in itself was strange, and the woman was both apologizing profusely and demanding that they leave.

"I'm very sorry about the roof, would you kindly-"

"Quite harmless, I assure you, it was only broadcasting the secret things of this world, I believe it won't trouble you anymore..."

"I don't care, take it with you, there's a doctor down the street, now just-"

Frances sat up. "What happened? Why are we outside?"

"You must take your friend to a doctor, I think he has lost his mind, please hurry and go." The woman rambled, standing and dusting off her dress.

"What? He's always like this..." Well, not always laughing madly and playing with a radio. But Howell was generally in a good mood when his magic worked.

"Please, just-"

"We've troubled the fair lady enough, Frances. Let's get going." Howell said, standing up and fruitlessly dusting himself off.

Frances looked at the house, or what remained of it. The roof had caved in over the dining room, and he groaned. "I'm terribly sorry-"

"Oh, it isn't my house." The woman replied, laughing. "I just seek shelter there when it rains. I live in the town, in Chimayo. But now the house is ruined, and I can't shelter there any longer. So please, get along now, your friend needs help and you need a doctor."

They left her there, laughing oddly and waving, and walked into the town. The next time they went to Santa Fe, Howell presented the radio to Molly as a gift, and though Frances was sure it was still broken, it only played merry tunes from then on.

[SPC] Rainy Landing

2009-11-30T00:06:29Z

Title: Rainy Landing
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Oh Lordy. Frances, Howell, and the Captain definitely. Implied that the rest of the Zeppelenin party is there as well, I just don't know their names yet.
Genre: Alternate-universe, magical realism, steampunk
Rating: G
Notes: This didn't come out nearly as well as I wanted it to. I may try to recycle the original inspiration and make something that isn't shit. Hmm. First posted to greyhime on 11/28/09.

It was snowing that night, when the zeppelin landed and they deboarded into the plaza at the Moskau aerostation.

Frances had been laying in his bunk, hands clasped behind his head, trying to will his heart to stop pounding so desperately fast. He could barely remember the last time he'd been this excited - that night that he'd finally met Howell, and they had started this long journey - and it was almost a foreign sensation to him.

When had he become so jaded with the world? Was it when he sat on the dirt in dumb silence while Howell conjured beasts great and terrible from the desert sand? When he'd discovered Molly's past? When he'd helped them escape from the United States army?

He heard the captain's voice, her mad cackle over the staticky speakers as they descended through the clouds, the zeppelin shuddering and groaning above and around them. He sat up in bed when he heard snatches of a language he'd almost completely forgotten, the shouts of Russian linemen running to tether the balloon to the earth, and faintly, he heard another voice running down the hall to the bridge. It was time to join his comrades, to see this strange beautiful land with his own eyes.

Frances sort of expected to see the famed Red Square he'd heard so much about first, but when he stepped through the door and walked down the plank, he realized they were on the outskirts of the city, and it was snowing heavily. His pocketwatch said it was only 4 o'clock, but the sky was dark and heavy above him, and the streets were damp.

The captain strode across the tarmac, wicked blonde hair dampened by the cold and wet, and began issuing orders to the linemen. Howell seemed both confused, and relieved; Frances caught a glimpse of his face, and thought that maybe he was close to tears, though it was hard to tell sometimes. The rest of the crew were already milling around, talking animatedly to themselves or to the other people at the aerostation.

Frances stepped off the ramp onto Russian soil, stared up at the downy sky for a moment, and thought that he might cry, too.

[SPC] Resourceful

2009-11-29T23:51:40Z

Title: Resourceful
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaborative
Characters: Frances and Howell
Genre: Western, alternate universe, magical realism
Rating: PG
Notes: Let no one ever call Frances wasteful or useless. First posted to greyhime on 11/26/09.

He just didn't know when he'd have to use the gun again.

Certainly, most people threw away murder evidence, but Frances wasn't most people. He liked to think he was more practical than that. Guns weren't cheap, after all, and neither was ammo, and anyway, this was an heirloom piece, the very same gun that his mother had brought to New Mexico stashed away in her skirts when she and her newly-wed husband came down the Santa Fe Trail. He wasn't throwing it away. It had sentimental value.

And now, he thought, staring down the barrel and trying to make his hand stop shaking, it just might save his and Howell's life.

Howell was wounded. He could see the blood on the sand, and the sand in the blood, and his pants were ripped and wasn't this the fifth or sixth time that Frances would have to mend them? He might as well just buy the poor man another pair of pants. It was damn near all crooked seams and patches by now. That part wasn't so important, though. He needed to buy him some time. Howell was already sticking his hand in the fitfully-bleeding gash on his leg, blood for ink, muttering something. His voice rose every time it hurt particularly badly, until he was nearly screaming the words, but he never stopped, never paused in what he was doing (and Frances didn't know, just that it involved symbols drawn hastily on the ground), and Frances knew that it was vital that he, too, act quickly and without hesitation.

He wasn't sure what the beast in front of him was supposed to be anymore. Some sort of deranged enormous coyote, possibly. But by the grace of God, he'd at least stun it.

Frances pulled the hammer back, closed one eye, and fired.

[SPC] Turned away.

2009-11-29T23:43:36Z

Title: Turned Away
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration.
Characters: Frances, Howell, misc random etc.
Genre: Western alternate universe, magical realism, etc etc etc.
Rating: G
Notes: And then I wrote this and it was fucking awesome. Frances needs to learn basic medicine, and Howell has a reputation. First posted to greyhime on 11/19/09.

But Howell was sick, sicker than Frances had ever seen him. A grey pallor had cast over his alcohol-ruddy features, and his eyes watered not from vodka, but from pain and the fever.

They rented a room in a boarding house in the first town they stopped in, though Howell hadn't wanted to stop, had asked that they keep going, but Frances wasn't going along with everything the other man said this time. He was scared in a way that made his core tremble and his hands shake when he wrung ice water out of the sock. Folding the sock over a few times, he turned and placed it on Howell's forehead, hands jerking back when Howell shouted and waved his arm. He didn't know if it would work. He only remembered precious few remedies and medicines, and usually they were the oddly specific ones that his father would bring home from his travels, things like osha and willow and crushed mineral for his ailing mother.

But Frances had no idea what exactly Howell was sick with, and no idea how to treat it, so when his friend lapsed into unconsciousness, he placed wards on the windows, locked the door behind him, and ran to the nearest church.

It had to be shortly before midnight, and it occurred to Frances about halfway there that the priest might be asleep, but the stained glass glowed ever so faintly and he could see a light on in the priest's office. He stumbled on the steps, and caught his breath for a minute, pounding on the door once he thought he could speak.

The door opened and a tall priest with messy hair stood there, looking down at him. Frances shrank before him, intimidated, and the older man's attitude only made it worse.

"What is it, child?"

"My friend, he's sick, I don't know what, he's feverish and coughing and in pain and delusional - well you can't really tell, but I assure you he is - and do you know anything about medicine? Even if not, he likes the company of priests and it may soothe his heart." Frances regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but there was no taking it back, and Howell was too sick to do anything anyway. Well, so Frances thought. It might be a miraculous cure for all he knew.

"Does he need last rites, child?" The priest said, fighting back a yawn.

Frances almost, almost, insisted that he was eighteen and therefore not a child, but he refrained. "I-... I don't know. He might. He's really very sick." He said, quieter, biting his lip. Looking away to a shadow, he wrung his hands, slumping his shoulders. If this didn't work, he didn't know who he could ask. He didn't know this town at all.

"You're his friend."

He looked up, seeing the dawning horror on the priest's face. "What?"

"Those charms on your necklace, that attitude, there is no mistaking it. You're that incubus's friend. Get out of here."

"Wait, I don't- what?" Frances looked down, reaching up to touch his necklaces; the tiny cross, the locket stolen from his mother's trunk, the symbol of the Revolution. "What incubus?"

"I have to go, I will not do this." The priest said, turning away and pulling the door.

"WAIT, PLEASE WAIT." Frances shouted, grabbing the door and shoving one arm and half his shoulder into the crack. "I BEG YOU, IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST I BEG YOU TO BE MERCIFUL, HE'S MY ONLY FRIEND AND HE MIGHT DIE, PLEASE DON'T ABANDON US."

The priest pulled the door shut on Frances's shoulder, and he screamed, knees buckling out from under him, but the scream seemed to do it, as the priest opened the door again and glared at him. "What exactly do you want? There is nothing I can do for you. I'm not a doctor, and I refuse to go near that walking sin."

"T-tell me where I can find a doctor... I don't care who, send me to a witch then, send me to a shaman, I just want him to live."

The priest was hesitant, and Frances could see the anger and fear in the clergyman's eyes, could almost hear him weighing the potential sin of sending a sheep to a witch, against the possibility of... Frances's eyes widened, and he realized why this priest was so angry, so fearful, and why Howell had wanted to continue on.

"He- you- oh..."

In a second, the priest's features froze, the blood draining from his face, and he grabbed Frances by the arm and shoved him out of the door. "There is a Mexican witch who lives in a hacienda just behind the general store. Her name is Juanita. Go find her. They say she can cure anything." the priest finally said, in a rush, reaching up to cross himself. "InthenameoftheFatherandtheSonandtheHolySpirit, leave this place and I don't ever want to see you or Father Howell again."

With that, the door slammed, and Frances was alone.

[SPC] Dreamland Visitors

2009-11-29T23:37:54Z

Title: Dreamland Visitors
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Howell, and Nikolai
Genre: Western, alternate-universe, and more magical realism.
Rating: PG
Notes: Okay. stalebiscuits dared me in chat to write something embarrassing for Frances and this was all I could think of. It was his revenge for me daring him to write something not depressing for Howell. I think he wins this round of bets, as his story was fucking awesome and this one is... meh. I don't really like it so much, but oh well. First posted to greyhime on 11/17/09.

He acclimated to sleeping on the ground relatively well; the times that he didn't pass out while walking and collapse onto the hardpacked sand, he would take his hatchet and bust up the dirt until it was soft enough to lay on without leaving sore spots on his hips and shoulders.

When the cries of the desert animals died down a bit, and Howell no longer jerked and rambled in his sleep, and the mending and diary writing was done for the night, Frances would lie awake, staring up at the stars, letting his thoughts wander. He usually drifted in and out of consciousness during these times, more out than in, and strange things would happen in this netherworld of wakefulness; he would see comets dance and loop dizzyingly across the sky, animals lope by on two legs, enormous hawks with glowing feathers and hear voices whispering all around.

It was a night like that, that he heard the soft footsteps behind his head, and tilted his head back to see Nikolai standing next to him.

"Why do you lie in a grave?"

"It's my bed."

"Your body will be consumed."

"It has been consumed since the day you first kissed me."

"I never thought of you as a poet." Nikolai kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, and lay next to him, touching his face.

"I thought you went back to the Motherland."

"I have been many places, Francois. For example..."

He tried to speak, but there was warmth and softness on his lips, and rolling on top of him, pinning him down by his shoulders, and Frances tried to move, tried to sit up or lift his arms, and found that he couldn't. He could hear the bells, and vaguely wondered why he could hear churchbells out here in the middle of nowhere, and he could taste vodka, and wine, and Nikolai, and sand. But he was just a spectator, a statue, an image that those lips and hands were paying service to, but when the man before him drew back...

"Who th' Hell is this Nikolai?"

"He's from Bernalillo... no... he's from Petrograd..." Frances tried to say, but his lips felt papery and confused.

"Stop your mumblin'. Who's Nikolai?"

"I just said, he's from-"

"FRANCES. EITHER SHUDDUP AN' GO BACK TO SLEEP, OR WAKE UP AN' TALK."

Frances opened his eyes. The stars had moved above his head, and the fire was dying down. He was drenched in cold sweat, his mouth and throat dry, and he didn't even want to think about what was going on in his pants. He hoped the fire had died down enough, or that Howell's eyesight was bad enough...

"I was dreaming."

"You sure were. You suuuuure were. Who th' hell is Nikolai?"

Frances closed his mouth and shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Don't give me that. I thought you were one of them. I had half a mind to cleave your head from your shoulders until I realized it was English you were gibberin' in."

"I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

Howell eyed Frances suspiciously, before reaching into the fire and grabbing a handful of ashes, throwing them on the younger man. Frances coughed and sputtered, but when he didn't die or scream in agony, Howell was satisfied and rolled over, making a soon-to-be-forgotten note to interrogate Frances later.

Frances, for his part, rolled over, wiping ashes off his face and closing his eyes. He would have to be more careful about his dreams from now on.

[SPC] Favors

2009-11-29T23:33:56Z

Title: Favors
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances and Howell
Genre: Perspective? Idrk.
Rating: R
Notes: ....Gahahaha. Howell has interesting tastes in men, and Frances is a damn good friend. Alcohol and sex are present, hence the rating, but it's not graphic. First posted to greyhime on 11/17/09.

Frances was a believer in the concept of favors, and things that friends just did just because they were friends.

Things like this. Things like mending pants, and darning socks, and looking for good deals on new shoes in general stores, or stealing shoes from people in swimming holes.

Things like standing guard, as the case may be, while your only friend in the world had what sounded like rough sex with a priest in a confessional.

Frances had balked, had outright refused, the first couple of times that Howell asked him - or, more accurately, ordered him - to make sure no one came into the church. Even after he began agreeing, he would just stand outside the doors, shielding his eyes from the first rays of the new rising sun while he waited for Howell to finish up. This worked nicely until Howell informed him that lo and behold, churches had many doors, and nuns knew where these other doors were.

So Frances took up sitting inside the church, which was just fine with him because they had begun to walk north, and he hated sitting outside on those chilly nights or frigid mornings, even if the sky and the mountains around him were beautiful beyond compare. Besides, once he ascertained that no one was around, he usually went to the priest's office, where he would swipe one or two bottles of sacramental wine. If Howell could get something out of this, by God, Frances would too.

Half the time, the wine was gone by the time Howell's voice rang through the church, throaty and vibrant and Frances could swear that it was sometimes the only time Howell sounded alive. It was always then, or when he worked his magic. The rest of the time, it was a slurred drunken mumble, a stream of consciousness rant broken up occasionally by interrogations and sermons. It was kind of nice to hear Howell actually sound like a living person and not a reanimated corpse.

Frances took another drink, lifting his lips from the neck of the bottle and letting his head fall back, neck resting on the back of the pew. He stared up at the angels, the cherubim and the seraphim and the like, the apostles, the Stations of the Cross. There was something wrong about trying to ignore the sound of fornication in a sacred place like this, and Frances supposed he should feel guilty about it, but he thought that maybe he was beyond the point of redemption, if not for this, then for stealing wine from every parish they'd stopped at between Santa Fe and Alamosa.

"SAY IT. SAY MY NAME. SAY IT!"

"Fa-father Howell..."

Frances threw his free arm over his face and took another drink. Damnit. This might be a while.

[SPC] Insomnia

2009-11-29T23:23:57Z

Title: Insomnia
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Howell
Genre: Western, alternate-universe, some magical realism.
Rating: G
Notes: First time writing something with Howell in it! He is so fun and so awesome. Not really chronological at all, just felt like writing it. First posted to greyhime on 10/28/09.

Sometimes it was just better not to know. Sometimes it just didn't really matter that much.

Frances had insomnia, sometimes. Usually he just passed out wherever he lay, mostly because he'd walk until his vision blurred and Howell's voice faded in and out of his consciousness. But sometimes Howell would get tired first, and Frances would find himself alone, watching this strange man (and even though they'd been traveling together a while, he was still a very strange individual) sleep, occasionally mumbling something or shifting restlessly.

Sometimes, Frances thought he heard names. But he didn't want to pry. His comrade's past probably wasn't any prettier than his own, anyway.

He tried laudanum sometimes. He could never get over the awful bitter taste, though, and he hated that bizarre delirium that followed, those dreamless sleeps and horrible mornings-after where he'd stumble about, holding a handkerchief to his mouth even as he stood watch for Howell while the other man was inside the church.

So he learned to tend the fire, do the mending, and sometimes even kept a diary by firelight, just to pass the time.

It was better, anyway, than thinking about what might be wandering the desert.

[ORIGINAL POETRY] Somnophilia

2009-11-29T23:16:47Z

Title: Somnophilia
Series: None; Greek Mythos?
Characters: Selene and Endymion
Genre: Mangled mythology, romance.
Rating: PG
Notes: THIS WAS ORIGINALLY MEANT TO BE A HALLOWEEN POEM FOR THE GHOST. Ahhhh fuck. That went badly in a hell of a hurry. I wrote this in math class when I was bored and zoning out. First posted to greyhime on 10/28/09

Twisting, twirling, swirling, swishing
The leaves drop from their branches
the branches drop from their trees
the mercury drops from the glass
and the moonlight descends from the sky

Goddess Selene! Tho formless now
Body shed to dance naked across the sky
Your skin radiant, sullied only by
the folly of man.

Folly, falling, calling, carried
On the All Hallow's wind
On the candle scented wind
Olly olly oxen free in the wind
and the wind caresses Endymion's cheek

Shepherd Endymion! Forever sleeping
Body in state in her temple, immortal
never to awaken, for the goddess's pleasure
her selfish desires

Desire, desperation, perspiration, perfection
A temporary body
a fleeting union
a momentary death
and nothing is forever anyway.

Will you ever let him wake, Selene?
No, she says, with a cold smile
For he is mine forever this way

[SPC] Gone!

2009-11-29T23:12:30Z

Title: Gone!
Series: Steampunk Communism collaboration
Characters: Frances, mention of the Bolsheviks
Genre: DEPRESSING! Western, alternate-universe
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I'm so mean to my characters, ahhhh. Poor Frances. He's about 17 at this point. All good things must come to an end. First posted in greyhime on 10/27/09.

Those nights were educational, and Francois learned everything he could.

Nikolai was fascinated by the things that Francois knew. When he was bitten by a spider, he watched in mute horror as the American raided the pantry, making a paste out of powders and water, and packed the paste onto the wound, and he was absolutely stunned when it actually drew out the venom. There were the little things he did that Vladmir and Dmitri snorted at, such as crossing himself when walking past a cross or dropping to one knee before images of the Virgin Mary or Christ. Nikolai did not share all of Francois's beliefs, and refused to set foot inside the Roman church, but he listened to the boy, and at least made an effort.

Francois told himself that he was merely a student, that it was an arrangement of payment and gratitude for taking a poor idiot like him under their wings, but he couldn't lie to himself. He loved that someone listened to him. He loved that someone gave a damn about what he thought. He loved that someone was willing to sit him down and talk to him. He loved the words that Nikolai said to him, the innocent praises and the profane exaltations.

He spent more time in town now, than he did at home. It was probably just as well. Word got around, and if his father knew, well, Francois wasn't too sure just what would happen.

He loved Nikolai's handwriting. He couldn't quite read it, because it was mostly in Cyrillic, but he loved it anyway. He loved the way he read things, or the soft way he spoke. He loved the way the Russian man's fingers carded through his hair, or traced over the muscles of his shoulders and chest.

He didn't love how the conversation would stop sometimes and Nikolai would just look at Vladmir and Dmitri, and they would argue for several minutes in rapid-fire Russian, until one of them threw their hands in the air and another stood and left the table. Francois didn't like not knowing what was going on. It made him nervous. But, those fingers under the table, rubbing his knee soothingly, made him feel a little better.

The nights were brilliant, firey, and Francois learned that Nikolai was just as good at debating as anyone else, and possibly physically stronger than him, and definitely better at drinking than him. They would split a bottle sometimes, alternating between drinking heavily and rolling together on the narrow bed, attempting to find a position that didn't end in one or both of them falling off the edge.

But one morning, after a particularly passionate debate (in which they tested what Vladmir had pulled from a still tucked away in the shadow of the mountain), Francois woke up to birds chirping outside, the creak of a door hinge, and no handsome Russian man wrapped around his waist.

He got his bearings, put pants on and sought a blindfold to block some of the light, and wandered the house, calling for his comrades.

But they were nowhere to be found, at all; sometime in the night between him passing out and him waking, they had vanished.

They had possibly gone to Albuquerque, or to Santa Fe. Francois cleaned the kitchen, cleaned Nikolai's room, read what he could of their books, then sat, drinking morosely, until well after nightfall, until his head bobbed forward and smacked the knotted pine tabletop and he was too drunk to feel it or care. He awoke the next morning that way, with an awful crick in his neck and his back screaming in pain, and drank until it no longer hurt, then Lucinda came and begged him to come home for a while, which he declined to do; Francois wanted to be there when they returned.

But the next day, they still hadn't come back, and Francois was bored and lonely. He spent half the day in bed, sleeping, waking, drinking, exhausting himself, and sleeping some more, until the pillow fell off the bed and he found a folded slip of paper with an address written neatly on it, and a simple "I'm sorry" at the bottom.

That night, he bathed in the river, and returned home. He accepted the beating that was doled out to him, went to bed, and the next morning, threw himself into digging a new well to irrigate their crops. He put everything Russian he owned into his mother's old trunk and stored it in the shed, and tried to put his three comrades out of his mind, though he still woke from dreams drenched in sweat and biting his lip so hard it bled.

He no longer drank. There was no one to drink with. Heaven forbid he drink with his father, and say something he didn't mean to say.

For a while, things seemed to go back to normal, at least as normal as it could be when living with your drunk and mourning father when you were nursing a secret heartbreak yourself.

But he knew it couldn't last forever, and he still dreamed of red and yellow, of fire and cannons, and of a country he'd never seen.

[SPC] Discoveries...

2009-11-29T22:59:56Z

Title: Discoveries
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, Bolsheviks
Genre: Western, alternate-universe
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Here's where we actually learn something about the Bolsheviks that Frances palled around with for a while. We also learn that his family life sucks and that he's desperate for affection. Basically? Everything is depressing about this story. Also, implied sex is implied. About damn time he lost his virginity. Also also, Frances is gay. Derp. First posted to greyhime on 10/26/09.

Sometimes he'd borrow Lucinda's horse, swearing to bring it right back somday soon. Most of the time, though, he'd just leave, walk out the gate, with a few changes of clothes shoved into a doctor's satchel that he'd bought at an estate sale in Alameda. He'd walk to town, loiter at the saloon until last call, then wander the streets, sleeping on storefronts or asking the Russians for a place to stay.

The Russians were renting a house from a man who was loyal to their cause. The man often left the country, returning to Russia and bringing back news, records, books, and mail. He'd sit with them into the night, listening to Vladmir translate news that was already several weeks old, while Nikolai and Dmitri nodded sagely and occasionally piped up with an amusing anecdote.

Vladmir was the leader of the group, a fifty-something man who had spent his entire life under the Czar's thumb, a man who truly believed in equality and liberty for all. His father had worked himself to death for the nobility, with nothing to show for it, and Vladmir never wanted his children to ever see such horrors as he had. Nikolai was soft-spoken, handsome and young; he'd never married, preferring instead to study extensively and travel the world. Dmitri was angry, always angry and always planning something or another, a heavyset man who drank more than anyone Francois had ever met.

Vladmir usually offered his room, as he'd stay up and study the books or write essays and letters for back home. But this time, he was sick, coughing between broken English apologies into his sleeve. Dmitri was sick too, and anyway he hated being woken up from a drunken sleep. Nikolai wouldn't mind, probably. "He took the liking to you. Go talk to him." the older man said, and Francois offered his sympathies apologetically even as Vladmir was closing the door.

Nikolai had his own door into the house, around the side next to a shed. Francois rapped at the door, a little guilty about it all, but damned if it wasn't November and the sky above wasn't threatening to open up and pour rain on him. The door opened before he could chastise himself further, and Nikolai peered at him, shirtless and stubbly and wearing only grey flannel pants. For some reason, Francois had to force himself to look up and away, staring instead at the Russian's messy hair.

"Ran away again?"

"Yes... it's the same as usual. He's searching for the headwaters of the Volga."

Nikolai snorted. "You sound like one of us. Come." he said, stepping back and letting Francois inside.

A wood-burning stove in the corner glowed faint red, and Nikolai pulled the door open with tongs, throwing another log onto the coals. He shut the grate and adjusted the vents, turning to look again at Francois in the candlelight. Francois, to his credit, had not fled or been startled by the large Soviet banner across the wall, the tallow candles, or the general clutter and mess in the room. He could feel Nikolai sizing him up, though he wasn't sure why. The other man was usually quiet and didn't really contribute much to the conversation, seeming to prefer quiet lessons in language and history to Vladimir's grim reporting of events and Dmitri's angry rants.

It wasn't until he'd set down the satchel in a corner next to a comfy-looking chair that he realized Nikolai had crossed the room, and when he turned again, a strong, soft hand gripped his chin, and in the dim light of the single candle, he could see those gentle eyes, a color indiscernable in this light, and before he knew it there were lips on his own and it all startled Francois so much that he stepped backwards, his knee hitting the edge of the seat and his legs threatening to give out from under him.

He knew what he was. He was familiar with the terms. It was probably half the reason his father hated him. But until now, until those soft lips and those gentle hands on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing the textured patterns on his vest, that he realized just what it meant, and he wasn't sure he could turn it down.

After all, he was the one imposing on Nikolai in the middle of the night.

Nikolai, on the other hand, was simply drunk and lonely. Girls in this strange land were prudish and haughty; their families did not want them marrying out to some poor Russian. Hell, half the families in the valley were connected by blood or marriage, giving him the sinking suspicion that they were all inbred and insane. Francois was a breath of fresh air, a boy so pretty that you didn't care he was a boy, and unburdened by a stuck up clan, as well. If it were any indication, anyway, the boy would be an orphan soon enough, and they were already making plans to return to Petrograd just as soon as they could. If he could bring this pretty, impressionable American-born traitor with him, well, all the better.

In the morning, Francois wakes up sore, alone, and cold, and Nikolai makes no mention of it, but for a week he stays in the house, until Lucinda finds him and tells him it's finally safe to return home. But some part of Francois believes it's possibly the best week he's ever had, because finally he can pretend someone loves him.

[SPC] Grey Shell

2009-11-29T22:33:55Z

Title: Grey Shell
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances, his family, the Bolsheviks
Genre: Western, alternate-universe
Rating: PG
Notes: First time we see the Bolsheviks that lived in Bernalillo for a while. Also, DEPRESSING CRAP! Also also "underage" drinking and talk of violence. Francois is 16 at this point. First posted at greyhime on 10/25/09.

Francois had just turned sixteen, when Patricia died.

It was to be expected. She'd had consumption for so long that he wasn't sure she had lungs at all anymore. It was a true miracle that neither he nor his father had contracted it from her.

He wasn't there for it, though, and in later years, he would hate himself for this fact, would stare into a fire as Howell raved drunkenly, and remember her grey hand.

Francois told his parents that he had a job, teaching an imbecilic girl in town how to read. This was a lie, like most of what he told his parents anymore, but he was a sixteen year old boy and sometimes that's to be expected. Instead of teaching idiots their letters, he would visit a certain saloon in downtown Bernalillo, sitting in the back of dark and smoky bar, drinking heavily with the Russian emigres and discussing the revolution. Sometimes someone would try to confront or question them, but the men he sat with were professionals. Sometimes they would sit by the river, lines in the water, feet up on rocks, and those were the conversations he really liked, because with no one around, they could talk about bringing the revolution home.

It was in these conversations that Francois learned how to make bombs, how to sabotage a train, what plants to make poisons with. He learned that the same plant that gave the world castor oil could kill instantly, that too much willow would make someone bleed to death, and that a well placed spark was sometimes all you needed in life.

He wasn't looking for a revolution for the same reasons the Bolsheviks were, though. He was just angry, and sick, and tired. He was tired of the United States dawdling. He was tired of the territory being invaded by Texans, or Mexicans, or Speculators, or other assorted foolishness. He was really tired of the high tariffs placed on goods bought and sold from the Santa Fe Trail, and he was tired of self-important tax collectors and surveyors and captains coming through to harass him and his family.

But that was something he would worry about later. Right now, he was worrying about how long it would take on his ride home that night to stop by the river and take a dip to rinse the stink of cheap vodka and illegally-acquired cigarettes off his skin and out of his hair. He was getting tired of his father tanning his hide every night. Albert and Patricia weren't stupid, they knew he didn't have a job, that he brought money home weekly from something else, and that he drank heavily. Francois knew they knew, but he kept up his end of the charade anyway.

The door to the saloon burst open and the bartender raised his head and yelled at someone, and Francois leaned over to see who it was. At the sight of the small, frantic Indian girl, he jumped up, throwing a dollar onto the table and running out of the bar, clumsily untying General Sherman's reins. He swung up onto the mount, tangling his fingers in the leather strips and digging spurless heels into nervous haunches. Sherman reared a little, confused and frightened, before turning in a circle and running down the street, the Indian girl Lucinda and her mare close behind.

The ride seemed horribly long, but when they arrived, Francois hopped off Sherman and let the horse run to the water tank while he dusted off his pants and entered the house, suddenly very self-conscious about his appearance. But for once, there was no immediate sound, though, no shouting, no swearing.

The house was so silent it was eerie.

The floors creaked under his feet, and he made his way down the hallway, hesitating a few steps before his parents' bedroom door. They were in there. She was in there. He stood and listened, holding his breath, begging his heart to stop just for a second, just long enough to hear...!

But it was silence, except for the occasional muffled sob, and he took another step, looking into the room.

He could see his father, looking about thirty years older than his true age, rocking back and forth in the chair next to the bed. He could see her hand between his, and he watched her fingers, waiting for some twitch, some sign of movement. He knew better, though. Her fingers had been purple-tipped for quite some time, and her thoughts had been addled for a while. He shifted his weight, the floorboard creaking under him, but the hand still did not twitch, and Albert did not pull his gaze away from the lump in the bed. But Albert knew, and Francois knew, and Danny-in-Heaven knew, and Patricia herself knew, and God knew. Albert's tears were in vain, for all that was left was a grey shell.

Francois couldn't stand to watch it anymore.

He left the house, storming past Lucinda, past General Sherman at his water tank, and out the sun-bleached greying gate. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, two and a half dollars in his pocket, and the shoes on his feet. His vision blurred, and he reached up, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his shirt collar so the tears could flow freely.

He walked until he wasn't sure where he was, walked until he thought he just might have heat sickness, walked until he found the river again, then sat by the river, and cried until there was nothing left in him to cry. He cried for Danny, dead these ten years. He cried for his mother, dear Patricia, who had fought and survived for so long. He cried for his newly widowed father, who had lost his faith in everything, had ranted and railed, had begged and pleaded, and had lost his wife anyway.

And when he woke the next morning, dirty and covered in leaves and shaking from sleeping in the cold too long, he brushed himself off, washed his face and hands in the river, and went to Mass anyway, because it was the only thing he could think to do.

[SPC] Beauty

2009-11-29T22:27:43Z

Title: Beauty
Series: Steampunk Communism Collaboration
Characters: Frances
Genre: Western, alternate universe.
Rating: G
Notes: Enter Francois, age 13. Francois is a scrawny little kid living just outside of Bernalillo, in the New Mexico territory. His family is poor, but they have enough money to survive, or at least get by. The territory isn't well organized, though; for new things, or most modern conveniences at all, they are reliant on the Santa Fe Trail, but for everything else, they just barter or deal with the Mexican and Spaniard families, or the Indians. This is the first entrance of Francois in the Steampunk Communism series. First posted on greyhime on 10/14/09.

Albert and Patricia weren't fans of the services. Patricia was too weak from consumption to leave the house most days, but she was also Protestant, even if she hadn't spoken to a preacher in years. Sometimes one would come by the house, but she'd just cough incessantly until they left, then stare at the blue blue sky, eyes glistening with pride and sadness. She would face this trial just fine with her husband, just as she had everything else; there had been no preacher during any of her other trials, after all.

Albert hated the church, hated the people within it, hated everything it stood for. He hated that God had allowed his wife to become sick, his younger son to die, and his older son to become a worthless fop. The days he wasn't out consulting with the Indian doctors, he was sitting on a great overturned metal washtub, trying his damnedest to fix a washing machine that he'd bought out of a Sears Roebuck catalog. The sand had gotten into the oil, jamming up the gears and rendering it useless, and he spent a great deal of time cursing it to the heavens, trying to clean every last bit of grit out.

(The washing machine had been a necessity, otherwise he never would have bought it; Francois had an annoying tendency to stare into the water blankly or faint, and Patricia couldn't stand up for longer than a few moments.)

Francois saw an opportunity when it presented itself, and it had presented itself nicely when he was thirteen, in the form of a man stopping at their dusty homestead with a shiny new wagon. The man's name was Stalward, and he was a merchant heading northbound to Santa Fe to sell in the Plaza to people coming off the trail, and did they have anything they wanted to sell up north to the Easterners? Albert said no, but hesitated, went inside, and came out with Francois, stuffing a folded paper and a bag of money in the boy's shirt and instructing him not to come home without the items on the list. He'd nodded and clambered up onto the seat next to Stalward, waving goodbye to his parents as the horses stomped their feet, tossed their heads, and started off on the dusty road northbound.

It'd taken all day and all night to make it to Santa Fe, but when they arrived bright and early the next morning, Francois had been completely stunned by the sights around him. Men and women in finery, Indians and Spaniards and Americans and Freedmen, and if he listened he could hear all sorts of languages, and all sorts of talk. People weren't too happy about the Texans, and the agitators, and a lot of people wanted to become a state. There were whispers coming out of bars about the Bolsheviks, about Russian spies, about the Czar and his family. Francois knew where Russia was, but it seemed terribly remote and distant, and he didn't understand what they would want with a dusty sun-baked desert and a collection of mountains.

He was drawn in by the church bells ringing, a sound he'd never heard before. In Bernalillo, he only heard the clanging of the priest beating a tin washpot; but here, the clang of metal was transformed into peals of music on high, and he followed it, sure of something beautiful inside.

Francois skidded to a stop and walked into the church, looking around in awe. The pews were polished to a high gloss, the floor had just been swept, the books looked decently new and the paper still crisped under his fingers. Women with feathers in their hats talked merrily to each other, while men in waistcoats holding watches looked on, bemused. There were precious few children his age; he glimpsed one standing by the altar, shifting from foot to foot and running a hand through disheveled hair, but before he could ask him what was going on, the doors were closed and everyone seated.

Francois sat in the back, throughout the service. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel. He didn't know the prayers. He didn't even understand the prayers most of the time. His eyes kept wandering from clasped hands in his lap to the altar, to the man in robes and the children standing around him. He kept glancing at the ornate decorations, finer than anything he'd ever seen. He kept looking at the beauty all around him, awestruck. The incense. The goblets. The tablecloth. The gilded cover of the Bible they used. The delicately carved altar.

If you keep kittens in a closet, but one day let them out, you see them stagger around, blinded momentarily, gazing at everything, eager to explore, a little afraid and a little bold and and a little dazzled by everything. Francois was completely dazzled.

When the service was over, he remembered the packet of money in his shirt and the list, and stumbled out into the bright noonday sunshine, squinting against the light and trying to get his bearings. All he could see, though, was a sea of people, of trees, of buildings and wagons and happiness and life, and for a moment, just for a moment, Francois never wanted to return home.

But his mother needed the medicine and supplies. Stepping away from the church door, he began to walk.

[ORIGINAL ONE-SHOT] Formless

2009-11-29T22:18:06Z

Title: Formless
Series: None
Characters: Ghost
Genre: Horror
Rating: PG
Notes: If you can guess where this is actually set, I will love you to bits and may even buy you dinner. Originally written and posted in greyhime on 10/09/09.

Fall was always its favorite time of year.

It would arise out of a shadow, or slip from a cool, shady hollow, as soon as the sun went down and the air held a faint chill. Formless and faceless, it hovered there for only a moment, before moving, up, always up, to the roofs where most people didn't go, or didn't look.

There was once a time that it moved with abandon, icy fingers reaching out to slide up a girl's spine, cemetery breath on the back of a man's neck, nothing but a giggle and a whisper of leaves to the living. It was its favorite hobby, it was. It would take fleeting form to frighten or confuse those from far away, or it would remain nude, invisible and intangible, to send idle chills through their hearts. It would stand between a mother and her wayward child, just to frighten the mother into believing the child was doomed; it would drift, on the Holy Incense, through the church to disquiet the faithful; it would slip between a couple, pausing only for a moment to cement that dread on their souls, before flitting off again to sit in a tree, or on a roof, or even on nothing at all, watching their expressions, hearing their frightened whispers.

Sometimes it dreamed, though. Sometimes it dreamed of being that child. It dreamed of being that distant deity. It dreamed of being the girl in his arms, the man supporting her, or whatever variant they came up with (and it seemed that the living had nothing better to do than to come up with unendlingly many configurations, constrained as they were!).

But dreams were useless to it. Not living was simply that. You didn't sleep unless you were bored, because sometimes time passed and you'd wake up in eighty years to find that someone had taken your place, or that things were no longer the same as they were, and that was sometimes sad too, because it was nice to enjoy things while you had them, at least.

It couldn't remember ever sleeping. Gracious, why? Sleeping was pointless. Sleeping was boring. Sleeping was a waste. No, those hot days when it couldn't stand the sunlight and the cacaphony, it dreamed, or it wandered far abroad, across the plane, seeking out friends, seeking out someone to play with, another dead spirit, another outcast, another wanderer.

Tonight it descended from the rooftops, and took form when it landed. It wasn't very good at this part. Living people were so damn fickle with their appearances. Living people were so concerned with how they looked, and how they acted, and it was such a BOTHER. It had only very rarely choosen a form before, so it just picked stuff at random, from memory, from residual energies in the plaza, from whatever it happened to touch or think of.

It started walking, a little awkwardly at first. Right, left, right, left, mind the flaw in the sidewalk, mind the tree root. Right, left. Right, left. Got it. Arms to swing loosely at the sides, useless for now, good for so much else, but what was the point of leaving such things to flop around, hitting things as you moved, getting in the wa- oh. Oh. Balance. It saw, now. You had to have something to catch yourself. Bodies were so difficult. There was a chill in the air. It hadn't thought to make a jacket; it didn't really know how one functioned, anyway. Anyway, it was too late. People had seen it. They would question a jacket.

But the world was full of things and existence! The lights were bright with these eyes. It could hear every sound, the distant roar of traffic, the rustle of leaves, footsteps distantly. The smell of trash, of people, of autumn flowers, of the very air itself. It opened its mouth to taste the air, and found it tasted like water, and nothing, and everything. It was very, very strange.

It walked, and walked. It avoided the lights. It avoided the noise. It had never avoided these things before, because when formless, when shapeless, everything was dulled anyway, muted, quiet, peaceful. But it was so jarring, so brutal, that it hurt a little. It didn't like this sensation of pain at all.

But when it slipped into a shadow and tried to relinquish the form, something hesitated, and no matter how hard it tried, it couldn't release the shape and return to shadow.

It tried everything. The moon's light couldn't dissolve the shape, though. The water from a garden fountain did nothing but make it colder. It began to get scared. Then angry. Then scared again. This didn't happen before. It had taken forms before, just not for this long, and had always been able to dissolve the flesh and return to nothing. Something was keeping the form intact, and it couldn't get away from it, couldn't destroy the body and return to floating in the nothing.

So it did the first thing it could think of.

It had avoided the bright lights and loud noise of the highway, because it had been so painful, but being trapped in a body was worse. It walked up the exit ramp, aching and tired, exhausted from exertion. It had never been tired before. It had never hurt before.

Bodies were horrible things. So much... SUBSTANCE. So much MASS. So... so much MESS.

So much mess. So much pain. So much screaming. So much misery.

But it had not been tied so tightly as to face the pain of death. Only the pain of injury, not the pain of death, and the driver had been a drunk anyway, so no one would really care, or believe them. It spiralled up, singing and crying into the night, the body finally, blissfully, dissolving back into formlessness. Before anyone else could come by, it fled, returning to the quiet, the trees, the ancient peaceful streets that it had always wandered.

It was almost dawn, and it slipped into an alley, seeking refuge in a shadow only a few knew about, disappearing back into the plane from whence it came, eager to tell its friends of its terrible discovery.

LIFE UPDATE.

2009-11-29T22:04:06Z

Okay, few things real fast before we get this under way:

I no longer write fanfiction. Or at least, I haven't had an idea for one or motivation to, or a fandom that I cared enough about, for it in a long, long time.

I do, however, still write original fiction. So I'll be posting a LOT of that.

I quit writing in here for a long time after my ex left, but I will start writing here again. Everything WILL be open for everyone to view, just because I tend to link stuff a lot, and one of my main projects at the moment is this ENORMOUS collaboration with a ton of my friends. So, yeah. They need to be able to see it too.

Everything from this point forward, unless I specify otherwise, belongs to me, WITH THE FOLLOWING EXCEPTIONS:

Howell, from the Steampunk Communism collaboration, belongs to stalebiscuits.
The captain of the airship (I don't remember her name right off /sob), from the Steampunk Communism collaboration, belongs to rifurious

And, as always, this will be updated whenever.

I may also post parts and pieces of my NaNos here, as well as another original story I've been kicking around for two or three years. So yeah. Those ones are entirely mine.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

Moonlight

2008-02-19T07:26:49Z

Lyrics: Moonlight
Notes: Feels too much like "Atone" (see met_amphetamine for lyrics). Probably because I just read it. But I had the urge to write a song, and I like writing creepy songs.

You're dripping red
your eyes no longer see
you've breathed your last
a kiss for only me

we danced under
the light of the moon
my precious doll
the ballerina's tune

but you saw too much

your voice rings in my ears
you love, you hate,
but the girl you saw
will share your fate

we danced together
under the light of the moon
you smiled at me
hear the crazed tune

stop screaming
stop screaming
stop screaming
stop screaming

it'll be over soon
I promise

we'll die under
the light of the moon
my hateful bride
the demented tune

but no matter how I try
I still can't do it
I'm sorry
good bye

met_ylphenidate @ 2008-02-18T14:32:00

2008-02-18T21:43:47Z

Title: First Meeting
Series: Naruto
Characters: Itachi, Sasuke, Mikoto, and Mrs. Haruno
Genre: Semi-narrative, I think. Cute when-they-were-little stuff.
Rating: G
Notes: I always imagined that Mikoto would have lots of friends. I don't remember if Sakura's parents were shinobi, this is written on the assumption they were not. Originally written either in October 06 or March 07.

Inky black eyes peered over the whitewashed rail, one small sticky hand holding himself up, the other clutching his father's kunai, probably getting candy residue on the cloth wrapped around the handle.

"Mikoto, really, you should REST. You'll hurt yourself if you keep fussing!"

"The house is a mess. I need a bath. My parents will be here in a couple of hours, I can't let them see it like this! They'll think Fugaku doesn't take care of me!"

The blue bundle in the crib moved, turned, and revealed a single eye, as black as Itachi's own.

"You still don't need to cook a feast for them! Here, let me-"

"Haruno-san, no!"

"AHH! MY HAND!"

The two continued staring at each other. The bundle had caused Mother so much pain. She'd been crying and screaming all night last night. It'd kept Itachi awake, sitting outside her bedroom door, shaking in fear. His uncle had paused next to him while pacing, reaching to pat his head, before stalking off to some far corner of the house. Father still wasn't home; he was in Iwa and wouldn't be home for days.

"I'm so sorry! Please, let me-"

"I'm fine! Really! It just stings!"

"It's bleeding!"

"AHH!"

"Let me-"

But now Mother was trying to clean up the house, because Grandmother and Grandfather were coming, and Itachi had been told to go outside and play, but had slipped back into the house unnoticed to see what the source of all the commotion was.

"I'm such a klutz, really. I wouldn't have been a good ninja anyway. I really admire you."

"Oh, it's nothing. Could you pass the bonito?"

The bundle gurgled, and the eye blinked. Itachi frowned. How had it hurt her so much? It didn't look threatening.

"Oh, we should make a salad."

"I don't think we have any ginger, we may have run out."

The bundle gurgled again, and he reached over, gingerly pushing away the blanket with the kunai. Pink, blotchy skin on a tiny, pudgy body. He blinked. This was a baby?

The baby's face crumpled and turned red. Itachi was completely unprepared for the screaming and wailing that followed immediately after. His ears ached, and he let go of the rail to cover them, falling from the crib and landing badly on the floor. Stings of pain shot up his spine and down one leg, and he tried to scoot back to the door.

"What a voice!"

"He's far louder than Itachi was. I'm coming, I'm coming!"

His mother pulled open the door, gasping. He still sat on the floor, holding the kunai tight in his hand. He hadn't realized that his tiny hand, which could barely fit around the handle, had slipped down and been sliced open on the razor-sharp blade.

"Oh my god! Itachi! What happened?!"

He looked down, seeing the blood drip from under his hand, and his eyes widened. Perhaps he was just stunned by it, but it didn't hurt that much.

She'd already picked up the bundle from the crib and cradled him against her shoulder, while kneeling next to Itachi. "Let me see, dear." she murmured, taking his hand and pulling away the kunai, stretching his hand flat. Only when he actually moved, did it really start to hurt.

"Mother.."

"Shh." Her hand was glowing pale green, laying over his tiny hand, and the pain and blood were still there, but it wasn't bleeding anymore. He raised his hand when she released him, gazing at the line that had not long before been a shallow cut.

He turned to hug his mother, and say thank you, but she had already left the room, Haruno-san in tow, cooing to the baby.

Returning to his room, he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Father would come in when he returned from his mission, and would tell him how smart he was and how proud everyone was of him. He would. He was better than the screaming pink thing that was his little brother.

He didn't even notice when he fell asleep.

met_ylphenidate @ 2008-02-18T00:32:00

2008-02-18T07:37:54Z

Title:Headlines 1
Series: Headlines (original)
Genre: Narrative/Creepy
Rating: G
Notes: I love creepy stuff. This rolled around in my head for a while before I wrote it. Originally written in late June, 07.

My mother was a cheerleader, and my father was a cosmetic surgeon. He divorced her after I was born because she drank when she was pregnant with me.

I was born ugly, misshapen, twisted and crippled. My father took one look at me and left the room in a panic. He knew what my future held in store for me.

My father loved me. Every few months he would take me to work and give me little pink candies, and when I woke up I'd be dressed up as a mummy. He'd keep giving me candies and eventually would take the bandages off and take a picture. He kept the pictures in a scrapbook.

He said I would be his life's work, his masterpiece.

When I was eight, he took us and moved to a new town, where we didn't know anyone, and put me in regular school. He gave me the best tutors money could buy. I tried real hard, but I still couldn't understand a lot of what they said. But he said that it wouldn't matter, because his masterpiece was complete, and I was his beautiful little girl, who would never have to suffer and would marry rich and live happily ever after.

I hated the girls in the special ed program, because they were so ugly and poor. But I knew that I wasn't any smarter than them.

Then one day, I found my father's scrapbook when he was at work. I saw the pictures from when I was a baby, and the notes, and the pictures of each surgery. I saw where he took the surgical hammer and smashed my bones, my skull, my face, coaxing them into a pretty arrangement, until I looked just like the little girls in the movies.

My father loved me so much that he smashed me to pieces and put me back together. But I couldn't love myself, because I knew that deep inside, I was still ugly.

The river is so cold today.

met_ylphenidate @ 2007-05-28T18:33:00

2007-05-29T00:38:33Z

Title:Of roughhousing and well-behaved children.
Series: Naruto
Characters: Mikoto, with mentions of her family and the Inuzukas.
Genre: Perspective/introspective
Rating: G
Notes: I love writing stuff for Mikoto, can you tell?

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Mikoto and Mrs. Inuzuka looked up from their tea sweets and conversation at the same time as a scruffy-haired boy came barrelling into the room, covered in ink and screaming.

"HANA WAS MAKING EXPLOSIVE TAGS AGAIN AND AKAMARU WANTED TO PLAY SO I WAS CHASING HIM AND HE RAN INTO HANA'S ROOM AND HANA THREW HER INKSTONE AT US AND THREATENED TO HIT ME!"

"I'M NOT MAKING EXPLOSIVE TAGS, THE LITTLE TURD IS LYING, AND AKAMARU PULLED MY SCROLL OFF THE TABLE AND KNOCKED THE INKSTONE OFF, I DIDN'T EVEN TOUCH IT!" Hana stormed into the room after Kiba, similarily covered in ink. She stopped when she saw Mikoto and turned, coughing. "Sorry, Mrs. Uchiha."

"It's alright, Miss Hana, I was about to leave. Thank you for letting me visit, Tsume." Mikoto replied, laughing it off and standing. The matron of the Inuzuka clan apologized again for the commotion (even as she scolded her kids), but Mikoto waved it off, reminding the other woman that she had two kids of her own and a dinner at home to cook.

Yet, as she walked the bustling streets of Konoha, Mikoto took notice of the other mothers walking through the market with their children, and felt a little sad, wondering when (if at all) tonight her eldest would return home from his mission, and if Sasuke had come straight home or if he'd really found friends to play with. The thought was somewhat sad, and she walked faster, anxious to return to her home, with its distractions of cleaning and mending and cooking to occupy her mind.

Because, though she loved how well-behaved and quiet her sons were, she often found herself longing for a noisy house, with toads and lizards underfoot and messy rooms to scold her roughhousing boys over. She found that, as much a relief as it was to not worry about their health and safety, she rather enjoyed the times when she'd bandage up Sasuke's cuts and scrapes, and tend to Itachi's occasional burns and headaches. It was peaceful knowing that she would come home and everything in her house would be exactly as she left it, though she wouldn't mind coming home to find the failed results of cooking experiments, or a broken window, or even a bedroom half blown-up from making exploding tags (and she knew that, after the fit Fugaku would throw, he would have no trouble affording the repairs).

Funny, Mikoto mused, how she'd secretly wanted daughters, but now with two frighteningly smart boys, she wished for the things that typically accompanied raising sons. She would never dream of trading them for anything else, but... perhaps all she wanted was the excuse to hug them and tell them how much she loved them...

Which was exactly what she did, much to Sasuke's dismay (and squirming), as soon as she got home.

The life of a shinobi...

2007-05-27T15:55:48Z

(aka: first post in this journal! w00t!)

Title: The life of a shinobi...
Series: Naruto
Characters: Mikoto, with references to her family.
Genre: Perspective
Rating: PG (for mentions of brutal things)

This was spawned by a rather serious and vaguely morbid conversation I had with xkesshoux/wibbles_wobbles. The inspiring quote is below.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, the nine year old boy stared at a weed growing in the grass at the funeral grounds, where the Memorial stone stood. The breeze blew his bangs and his nearly shoulder-length black hair around his face. The brand-new black funeral suit was a little big for him, and she bit her lip as she watched him, wondering how soon he would have to wear it again.

Tatsu had been one of his few friends. He was a skinny mop-headed kid, from a civilian family, tall for his eleven years and with a crooked grin. The two boys were on the same team, but Itachi had been sick with strep throat, and another genin boy had filled in for him for the mission. Mikoto played with the hem of her left sleeve, aware of Fugaku's silent disapproval of her fidgeting. She didn't feel as though she could help it, though she made an effort to still her fingers. Tatsu. Think of Tatsu, his ashes in that funerary urn on the table before them, his name already engraved on the stone. Tatsu, who loved coming over to devour riceballs and train with Itachi. Tatsu, who was eleven years old when a ninja from a faction left over from the Shinobi wars put a sword through his heart and lung.

Itachi was watching a dandelion waving in the wind, his expression unreadable. He'd already achieved the impeccable Uchiha stoicness, and Mikoto wondered what he was thinking, under it all. Did he blame himself for being sick? Was he angry that his team was sent out without him? Was he depressed for losing a friend? She knew he'd looked up to Shisui for years, but ever since Shisui became a chuunin, he'd been too busy to help Itachi train.

Nine years old. Two years younger than poor, dead Tatsu. What would she do, she wondered, when they sent a messenger to her door, with the same news? When would that be? She squeezed her littlest's hand. How long until both her sons were out there, their lives in danger every moment they were outside the village walls?

"All things are beautiful in their transiency, and it is because nothing is forever that we must treasure it, as we treasured this brave young man."

Eleven year old boys were not men. Nine year old boys were not men. It felt hypocritical to believe this, when she had followed tradition and let her sons go to learn to kill, when she herself had been out fighting for her life at the tender age of eleven.

"The life of a shinobi is never very long. We must accept this fate, as we accept all things in life."

Never taking her eyes from Itachi, never taking her hand from Sasuke's tiny grasp, she rested her head on her husband's shoulder and wept.