indiana_j: (Walking alone)
"Ready?" you asked, voice muffled as you stretched across the driver's seat.  Even with Bucket's dim interior light on, I could barely make out your face but I know the sound of your smiles; I could hear the tug of your lips even through that one word and I couldn't stop my answering smile even if I'd wanted to.

"Alright, Merlin," I said, half-laughing, as I rested my hip on the cooling hood of my - our - car.  "Show me the magic."

Your laugh grew from a muffled chuckle into a warm crescendo as the car went completely quiet and, as my eyes adjusted to the sudden desert darkness, I heard you slither back out, heard the car door slam shut and, as I squinted in the inky blackness, heard the crunch of your sneakers on the sandy dirt beneath our feet.

I laughed, suddenly, when you walked right into me; it hadn't been deliberate and it was a delight, that sudden press of you against me, our personal bubbles bending enough to encompass both of us.  Now, when you laughed, I felt it vibrate through my hip and shoulder and my response wasn't verbal or physical - you couldn't see it.  That flip of the heart, that stuttering, that never failed to happen when you were around.

A hand on my hip urged me away from the car and despite the knowledge that there might be coyotes or snakes or even just a hole to fall and break a leg in, I couldn't help but follow your lead.  We don't go far; when we stopped, you slipped behind me, hands on my hips with finger tips slipping just so under the hem of my sleep rumpled t-shirt.

"Lean back."  Murmured like that into my ear, why would I not do exactly that?  Back against your chest, head against your shoulder, I know what you want me to do - I stared up.

Up, up and up.  Into the never-ending dark as ink night sky; I looked up as the millions of diamond like stars stared curiously back down at us.  I felt tears well up as I tried to soak in the universes that existed just out of reach - so close and yet so far away.  The tears couldn't fall, though, not as I felt our breathing fall into a familiar pattern as you started to move us, as we danced to the music that forever existed in your head, with the stars as the only witness.

For a moment, I had a weird sensation of falling up and wondered what it would be like to drown in a sea of stars; but you grounded me to the desert floor, to this weird and stupid life we attempted to wade through.

(Remember these?)
indiana_j: (broken through)
This was totally based on the hell I went through tonight (irony!  I was actually out of damned milk!) and what I think happens to the crazy people in the stores.

Fancy some milk? )
indiana_j: (Default)
I have no idea about this one - my brain is a strange place.

Spam )
indiana_j: (Default)
"Can you see up ahead?" I asked, again, hands hanging limp and loose on the steering wheel and legs stretched out to either side of the pedals.  We were in no danger of drifting as we had been stuck in the same spot for the last forty-five minutes.

He was only half in the car with me - a foot pressed against the dashboard for support, a hip hitched over the open window.  I couldn't see the rest of him but I knew him well enough to know that he would be resting his chin on forearms crossed over each other.  He could sleep anywhere and I worried that he would slip off from his tenuous perch, half asleep and unawares.

Shifting let me know that the danger of head wounds, broken hips and bruised egos had passed.  "Still nothing," he said as fingers that expertly played piano tapped out a tinny rhythm on the roof of the car.  "Nothing but brake lights.  Kind of pretty, though..."

I hated to admit it but he was right.  We were in the desert and night had fallen an hour or so before hand.  Brake lights, harsh and red, and the stars, cool and white, were the only illumination for miles around us.

We city folk - so inured to inexplicable traffic delays that a congestion that could have been set down by God himself had not phased us - were enthralled.  Amazed, enamored, frightened of the primal feelings it stirred.

He had grinned, wondering at what our ancestors would have thought.  'Of what?'  'Of how we scoff at the fear - it's there for a reason.'

The speed at which he fully rejoined me in the car had me wondering if he'd managed to insult gravity.  It was a graceless, but at the same time oddly graceful, movement that resulted in his shirt being rucked up.

Never able to resist, I placed my right hand on his skin, fingers splayed, to feel the warmth, the life, of this man in my car.  Laughing, he grabbed it and brought my hand up to his mouth, kissing the knuckles chastely.

A grin, then, with teeth white in the dark, before he playfully bit.  I yelped and smacked at him as I pretended the pain to be more than it was.  He snatched at my hand and I let him, as I always do, retake it within his larger one.

"Cars are moving," he informed me, buckling up.


"Yeah - they're being directed to go off the road and around."

My heart did an odd beat in my chest.  The car had been my father’s until he had to give up driving for good.  In a fit of goodwill that had been his trademark, he had simply given us the car.  To me, it was a precious thing, a legacy, but even my love of the car could not transform it from the slight wreck that it was.

"Off-roading?" I asked, aghast.  "In Bucket?"

However, how could I have resisted when he leaned over, lips against the shell of my ear, and said, "Come on, even Bucket deserves an adventure"?

I didn't even try.

After all, I would like to think that my father would have approved.
indiana_j: (Writing Quill)

"We should go away."

I looked up from the cramped kitchen table that held court in the middle of an equally cramped kitchen. It was an island of bills, text books from classes that ended at the start of the summer, a plate of donuts and three cats.


"Go away.  Us.  Somewhere."  He scrubbed at the side of his head and I watched as the cowlicks made a determined run for freedom.  My hands itched to smooth it back down but they were sticky from pen ink and kitten tongues.

I had a billion reasons to say no.  I had work.  We had projects half-started and forgotten on the apartment.  My mother had forgotten who I was just last week.  The cats would form a cabal and eventually take over the world while using the petsetter as their puppet.  Money - god, always money.

But I found myself saying yes because of the smile that peeked around the carton of milk as he carefully drank from.  Because the city had been stifling me for weeks.  Because my mom had forgotten my name just last week.

"Just us?" I asked, sitting back in my chair, all long legs and arms that I'd never grown into but for some reason that he adored.

He crinkled at me and I knew he'd age into his father.  A thousand wrinkles and adorable as any baby.  "Just us."


Sep. 28th, 2009 03:39 pm
indiana_j: (Default)
I might be doing November event this year - at the very least, I can pretend - and I think I'm going to scrap my original fairy tale idea and rework it with this new premise:

As a member of elite House of White, Rose Bramble should have had a very set and well-known path to walk throughout her years - a sister white as the snow, a bear in the woods, the evil dwarf, the whole deal.  But having a brother instead of a sister, being able to sense magic (something nobody saw coming), a missing father and a mother determined to have them see their own way in the world would mean that the path Rose would walk was one of her own making.

Making her living by helping others break curses, run away from the prince/princess and generally give the finger to Tradition, Rose has inadvertently set herself in the sights of some very powerful people who want to use Tradition for their own goals.  When the bodies of well known Houses start to pile up, she must seek out the mysterious Bear, a long time contact she has never seen or met outside of correspondence, a man she's longed to avoid due to association with her own legend and House.

But it's either that or end up like poor Cora, a Sleeping Beauty, murdered in her sleep with a spindle.

And why does E., Inc, the human corporation, seem unusually interested in the goings on?

indiana_j: (Default)
Well, a snippet.  I'm trying to work on a short story that involves fairy tales - basically, modern day infused with the characters from the stories.  And multiples - those that follow the Snow White and Rose Red paths, for example, are all descendants from the House of White, the original Snow White and Rose Red.   All the fairy tales have a path and because it's tradition, most of the magical folks tend to follow that path.  But there's a growing group of people who buck the trend - like this Rose "Red", who lives off the grid entirely, and who's "Snow White" 'older sister' had the bad luck of being born a guy who's determined to find his own prince charming. ;)

Plot is basically there's a group that intends to force the leaders of the various Houses to blacklist those that don't follow tradition (like the Sleeping Beauty 'cousin' who runs a flower shop - under stress, she tends to fall asleep so she takes a lot of weed ;) ).  Here's a snippet - Rose meets Jack Frost.
Snippet )\

Don't know if that sucks or if the idea does but it amuses me.


Feb. 7th, 2009 03:08 pm
indiana_j: (Writing Quill)
The mug is rough against her hands; the formerly vibrant blue has faded into a softer, quieter color from years of use, years of being cradled in palms almost as rough as the mug itself.  Callouses formed from a life time of hard work have worn the color down.  She finds she rather likes this newer color.  She's outgrown the garish colors of youth and this older color suits her now.

It is in that state of being almost too hot to hold but it feels good in that painful sort of way.  The tea warms the mug up and, in turn, it leaches into her hands as she leans against the window.  The sun's been struggling to rise even as she stomped around the farm - move, move, keep moving, ignore the cold that eats at the strength in old limbs and creaking bones - to do morning chores.  Still smelling of horses, she pauses to watch life slowly blossom across the farm, as she savors her morning brew.

Hands that have been weathered by time and sun bring the mug to her mouth but she doesn't drink yet.  She breathes deeply as her eyelids dip slightly and she ignores that rattle in her chest.  Tendrils of steam rise like ghosts under her mouth and nose, fogging up her glasses but she doesn't mind.  She's not really looking at anything, anyway.  Scents swirl against her senses as she breathes in deep, sharpening her sense of smell even as her mouth waters in anticipation. 

The cold falls out of her skin and bones like ice thawing from a tree, leaving behind a tingling warmth that spreads sluggishly up from her hands.  The woman tugs the mug closer to her chest as she seeks out more of that warmth - the farm house takes forever to warm up and the kitchen feels like a freezer.

Finally she raises it to her lips and takes a cautious, careful sip.  It scalds enough to bring tears to her eyes but she simply blinks and swallows.  This is a pain she's grown accustomed to.  In her throat the tea has transformed itself from liquid to a burning lump of coal.  She can feel it slide down her back and it scorches as it falls, burning a path from tongue to gullet.  There it sits and she shivers as it unfurls in her stomach, stretching and expanding.

Perhaps, she thinks as she takes another sip, she will take a thermos of tea out with her to visit her husband's grave.  Sit in the watery sunlight of winter with a belly full of liquid fire; she'll tell him how the farm is going.  Maybe she'll complain about the children, maybe she'll cry a little and wonder when she'll finally be able to join him.

She taps the mug with hands that look older than she is and finally turns away from the window.

Or maybe she will simply sit in the kitchen that will never get truly warm again and quietly drink her tea before starting her rounds again.

It is a decision she'll make once she's done, she decides, breathing in deeply once more and lets the steam play against her cold pinched cheeks.
indiana_j: (Default)
Because even genius detectives have mothers and fathers.

God Save The Queen )

indiana_j: (Default)
This one should amuse [ profile] deathpixie  and some of the other Aussies.

Death by Hasenpfeffer )
indiana_j: (Default)
I'm not sure where this came from or if it's any good.


indiana_j: (Default)

April 2016



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