Ficlet and stuff.
Mar. 1st, 2004 06:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanBlessed be Internet connectivity. Not in my room, of course, that would be asking too much, but they don't mind your chilling at the office and I need to reassure myself that fandom has continued to soldier on. I'll just have to hope the media bandwith holds out. *rolls eyes at self*
Firstly, bighugelove to Schiz of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
giddyupnow for my very own John Hancocked copy of Schizophrenic and the yellowing, home-bound Star Trek fanzines. I love all the stories of my friends turning into wibbling, incoherent fangirls at the mere sight of him - friends, it should be noted, who have met/been in proximity to him before. He really has been looking exceptionally gorgeous though.
This weekend's been nice - not having a connection made me work on some neglected projects, so that was of the good. Al's going to get so much more of a *ntroduction than he ever bargained for. Also, did those five loads of laundry that have been compiling so as to have something to wear tomorrow morning. Scary that I actually mean that literally - I was out of socks and non-dress shirts of all varieties.
Saturday was begun lazing with Jon for about two hours, which was lovely, then staring at a story for about four and a half hours between episodes of The Osbournes, Iron Chef, Law & Order, and two week ago's Angel. Not a bad bit of wasting time, that. Coffee with the ex-boy was fine, he was mostly late and I had good cake and got to ramble about the entertainment industry, so all in all, not too painful. He really, really does nothing stimulating for conversation though, and I don't like feeling as if I'm talking to myself.
Which was remedied by an intriguing episode of SVU (anyone know if the retarted and insane are institutionalized together?) and a late-night jaunt to Denny's, once again in the amicable company of Jon. Mmm, Moons Over My Hammy. And what a bounty of fries! Sometimes you feel like french fries, and I don't apologize when I do.
Friday's paper was by far the largest we've done since I started working, and looking at the final product, thinking that I'd singlehandedly proofed practically the entire thing wasn't too much of a stretch. Good grief. I got in at seven and didn't take a breath until past one. But then it was Coldstone's ice cream and uninventing the automobile, The Triplets of Belleville (of which the opinions of anyone who's managed to make any sense would be most welcome) and perfunctory dinner ceremonies at Friday's, all with Miranda, which is just never bad.
Missed JC on Sharon, but not Lance schmoozing with Donald Trump. Made me snicker, that did. Wonder if he's the powerful friends JC was alluding to Lance colluding with. It's a thousand futurefics come true! Maybe Lance does have a plan, and all those authors will laugh at our scorn when all our paychecks are stamped with his signature, with secret agent!JC by his side doing his bidding. Or you know, something.
My week's nut craving has culminated in peanut M&Ms with bonus, unrelated lasagna on the side. Mmm.
Also, there was a French essay due Friday which I'd all but forgotten about until lying down at around 2:30 this morning. I couldn't muster the energy to stay awake so I drafted it in the morning during my shower before History of the Revolution. Not sure I have much to explain how this came about from an assignment that involved giving a description of and relating an anecdote about a person. Only the title is French, and translates to As You Wish.
Comme Tu Souhaites
Some say popstardom is the furthest one can get from reality and still be on the same planet as everyone else. Pretty faces, youth, money, and even talent in the right circles everywhere, but what's striking about Justin is not any of the myriad things that make him a fixture in that world, but his relative normalcy in spite of it. How beyond endorsing it, he actually likes McDonalds and still eats overpriced, too-sugary cereal. He likes to swim and does so on public beaches whenever he can. He has three dogs and takes them to the local dog park himself when he's home and buys his own groceries to make his own recipe for quesadillas.
He misses his best friend.
They're already in New Orleans for Challenge then his own tour rehearsals, but Justin has been reading up for weeks. It's not as if he can walk into just any parlor on Bourbon Street - if word of this got out, he'd be committed, tour or not. As it is he'd barely avoided it during the months after the accident and now took a masochistic comfort in the slight limp even the best doctors couldn't fix. So his hotel room it is, the necessary symbols drawn on its plush carpet, candles flickering all around him with the smell of sandalwood heavy in the air as he chants calmly beneath his breath.
The stanza ends and, opening his eyes, Justin's gaze is level with the hem of a frayed denim miniskirt, a fitted T-shirt ripped at the neckline to expose a lightly freckles shoul - Britney, he realizes at the glossy pout and heavy lashes. He blinks at her in surprise.
"Wouldn't you rather have this talk with somebody you know?" she says with a wink, gum slightly slurring her speech as always. Except he hasn't seen her for close to a year, so maybe not. "Now, it's not my place to ask, and it's not as if I have to, but understand that this business of wishing, it's not a service industry. There's no satisfaction guaranteed, no thirty-day trial period or fine print. If you decide you want to do this --"
"I'm not scared," Justin says.
She smiles. "That's not true."
Justin doesn't break eye contact. "Not more scared than sure."
She watches him for a long moment, the first real clue that it isn't really her - Britney could read him like an open book. "You know what this means, right? All of this, your life as you know it, could be undone."
"Can you do what they say?"
Britney holds up her hand, polish chipped on the two nails she still couldn't ever keep from biting, and Justin's heart clenches a little. He would know, he thinks, if she were missing from his life. "Honey, I'm just the messenger, but the fact that I'm here means more than you know," she says, letting the accent that's been so expertly trained out of her creep back into her vowels. She leans closer to Justin, her features kind and voice soft and Justin can't hold back anything, so it's a bit jarring when she continues. "I just have to be sure you know what the consequences might be."
Justin sucks in a sharp, shallow breath. "As long as you give me what I want," he says, only hesitating for the briefest second.
"What about --" she trails off, her eyes wandering to the connecting door by the bureau.
"They'll be fine. They all had lives before the group, and they'd do fine with or without it."
"And what about you? You don't --"
"If it goes back that far, I wouldn't remember any of this anyway, right?" Justin snaps.
"I can't know why you're choosing to do this, you know," she continues after another assessing pause. "Not really. But I can't read your mind, and even if I could, free will is the one mystery to all the powers in the universe."
Justin raises his chin defiantly and grits his teeth to keep his voice from breaking. "Then all you have is my word."
"You may not even know him, Justin."
"I don't believe in a world without him in it."
With that, she gives a small sigh and a delicate shrug that becomes a shimmer, and by the time her hand touches his forehead, Justin is looking into his mother's face. "Tell me what you want, baby," she says.
Justin's shoulders shake, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stave off the impossible welling of hope in his chest. "JC," he says, rolling off his tongue sweet with prayer, and closes his eyes.
I wonder to what (and when) he wakes up. My theory of a benevolent universe dictates the guys would still know each other, but who knows?
*hugs Ethernet* I shall miss you mightily. Ta!
Firstly, bighugelove to Schiz of
giddyupnow for my very own John Hancocked copy of Schizophrenic and the yellowing, home-bound Star Trek fanzines. I love all the stories of my friends turning into wibbling, incoherent fangirls at the mere sight of him - friends, it should be noted, who have met/been in proximity to him before. He really has been looking exceptionally gorgeous though.This weekend's been nice - not having a connection made me work on some neglected projects, so that was of the good. Al's going to get so much more of a *ntroduction than he ever bargained for. Also, did those five loads of laundry that have been compiling so as to have something to wear tomorrow morning. Scary that I actually mean that literally - I was out of socks and non-dress shirts of all varieties.
Saturday was begun lazing with Jon for about two hours, which was lovely, then staring at a story for about four and a half hours between episodes of The Osbournes, Iron Chef, Law & Order, and two week ago's Angel. Not a bad bit of wasting time, that. Coffee with the ex-boy was fine, he was mostly late and I had good cake and got to ramble about the entertainment industry, so all in all, not too painful. He really, really does nothing stimulating for conversation though, and I don't like feeling as if I'm talking to myself.
Which was remedied by an intriguing episode of SVU (anyone know if the retarted and insane are institutionalized together?) and a late-night jaunt to Denny's, once again in the amicable company of Jon. Mmm, Moons Over My Hammy. And what a bounty of fries! Sometimes you feel like french fries, and I don't apologize when I do.
Friday's paper was by far the largest we've done since I started working, and looking at the final product, thinking that I'd singlehandedly proofed practically the entire thing wasn't too much of a stretch. Good grief. I got in at seven and didn't take a breath until past one. But then it was Coldstone's ice cream and uninventing the automobile, The Triplets of Belleville (of which the opinions of anyone who's managed to make any sense would be most welcome) and perfunctory dinner ceremonies at Friday's, all with Miranda, which is just never bad.
Missed JC on Sharon, but not Lance schmoozing with Donald Trump. Made me snicker, that did. Wonder if he's the powerful friends JC was alluding to Lance colluding with. It's a thousand futurefics come true! Maybe Lance does have a plan, and all those authors will laugh at our scorn when all our paychecks are stamped with his signature, with secret agent!JC by his side doing his bidding. Or you know, something.
My week's nut craving has culminated in peanut M&Ms with bonus, unrelated lasagna on the side. Mmm.
Also, there was a French essay due Friday which I'd all but forgotten about until lying down at around 2:30 this morning. I couldn't muster the energy to stay awake so I drafted it in the morning during my shower before History of the Revolution. Not sure I have much to explain how this came about from an assignment that involved giving a description of and relating an anecdote about a person. Only the title is French, and translates to As You Wish.
Comme Tu Souhaites
Some say popstardom is the furthest one can get from reality and still be on the same planet as everyone else. Pretty faces, youth, money, and even talent in the right circles everywhere, but what's striking about Justin is not any of the myriad things that make him a fixture in that world, but his relative normalcy in spite of it. How beyond endorsing it, he actually likes McDonalds and still eats overpriced, too-sugary cereal. He likes to swim and does so on public beaches whenever he can. He has three dogs and takes them to the local dog park himself when he's home and buys his own groceries to make his own recipe for quesadillas.
He misses his best friend.
They're already in New Orleans for Challenge then his own tour rehearsals, but Justin has been reading up for weeks. It's not as if he can walk into just any parlor on Bourbon Street - if word of this got out, he'd be committed, tour or not. As it is he'd barely avoided it during the months after the accident and now took a masochistic comfort in the slight limp even the best doctors couldn't fix. So his hotel room it is, the necessary symbols drawn on its plush carpet, candles flickering all around him with the smell of sandalwood heavy in the air as he chants calmly beneath his breath.
The stanza ends and, opening his eyes, Justin's gaze is level with the hem of a frayed denim miniskirt, a fitted T-shirt ripped at the neckline to expose a lightly freckles shoul - Britney, he realizes at the glossy pout and heavy lashes. He blinks at her in surprise.
"Wouldn't you rather have this talk with somebody you know?" she says with a wink, gum slightly slurring her speech as always. Except he hasn't seen her for close to a year, so maybe not. "Now, it's not my place to ask, and it's not as if I have to, but understand that this business of wishing, it's not a service industry. There's no satisfaction guaranteed, no thirty-day trial period or fine print. If you decide you want to do this --"
"I'm not scared," Justin says.
She smiles. "That's not true."
Justin doesn't break eye contact. "Not more scared than sure."
She watches him for a long moment, the first real clue that it isn't really her - Britney could read him like an open book. "You know what this means, right? All of this, your life as you know it, could be undone."
"Can you do what they say?"
Britney holds up her hand, polish chipped on the two nails she still couldn't ever keep from biting, and Justin's heart clenches a little. He would know, he thinks, if she were missing from his life. "Honey, I'm just the messenger, but the fact that I'm here means more than you know," she says, letting the accent that's been so expertly trained out of her creep back into her vowels. She leans closer to Justin, her features kind and voice soft and Justin can't hold back anything, so it's a bit jarring when she continues. "I just have to be sure you know what the consequences might be."
Justin sucks in a sharp, shallow breath. "As long as you give me what I want," he says, only hesitating for the briefest second.
"What about --" she trails off, her eyes wandering to the connecting door by the bureau.
"They'll be fine. They all had lives before the group, and they'd do fine with or without it."
"And what about you? You don't --"
"If it goes back that far, I wouldn't remember any of this anyway, right?" Justin snaps.
"I can't know why you're choosing to do this, you know," she continues after another assessing pause. "Not really. But I can't read your mind, and even if I could, free will is the one mystery to all the powers in the universe."
Justin raises his chin defiantly and grits his teeth to keep his voice from breaking. "Then all you have is my word."
"You may not even know him, Justin."
"I don't believe in a world without him in it."
With that, she gives a small sigh and a delicate shrug that becomes a shimmer, and by the time her hand touches his forehead, Justin is looking into his mother's face. "Tell me what you want, baby," she says.
Justin's shoulders shake, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stave off the impossible welling of hope in his chest. "JC," he says, rolling off his tongue sweet with prayer, and closes his eyes.
I wonder to what (and when) he wakes up. My theory of a benevolent universe dictates the guys would still know each other, but who knows?
*hugs Ethernet* I shall miss you mightily. Ta!
