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I always try to grab the first posting day for Seasonal Spuffy. I like kicking it off, not having anyone to compare myself to or be inspired by. And today is that day!

Check out my story, Fixation here.

Warning - it's weird, and not very Spuffy. :)
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Based on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner


They played for our souls, Death and Life-in-Death. Diced and paid us no mind. We were as nothing to them. When we play at dice, we care for our stakes, worry lest we lose too much. But our souls, though dear to us, were as nothing to Death and Life-in-Death. And so we watched, adrift in becalmed seas.


We’d spent the weeks prior tormenting one of our number for the death of the albatross, spent the days on our knees, praying for salvation. And now there was nothing to do but wait, and watch the game.


We none of us wanted to die. But they played on, and one by one we dropped, as Death won each soul. Each soul but one. The last life went to Life-in-Death, and only as we died, as we watched him not dying did we realize our escape. For in death there is freedom, in death there is salvation.


In Life-in-Death, there is nought but wandering and grief.


And so I cry salty tears for the mariner, enough to keep the seas lapping at the shore, enough to keep the tides flowing, and enough to one day lead him Home.

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They picnicked at the shore, with the sound of waves as a soothing background. The sun beat warm on uncovered heads and strong bodies, and they stuffed themselves to sleepiness, and lay about, chatting aimlessly.


She sat in the center of it all, the head of the family. The sons and daughters, granddaughters and grandsons she’d given up so much for surrounded her with love and compassion. Each took a moment to visit with her personally, though her eldest daughter never left her side.


It was the youngest granddaughter, a wee girl of 6, who asked the questions, for she knew no better.


“Grandmother?”


“Yes, my darling?”


“Mama says you’re going away and you’ll not come back. Where are you going? Why shan’t you come back? Won’t you miss us?”


All voices stopped. Even the waves seemed to hesitate on their endless path.


Grandmother simply laughed. “Oh sweetness, this world is not made for old women. The work needed to keep us fed and clad is beyond our frail bodies, and even the air seems to press us down, so our backs become crooked. Better to leave this place for you young ones, to go to a world that is much kinder to their aged.”


Satisfied, the girl ran off to play with her cousins. Eldest daughter sighed and wiped away a few tears. “Never fear, my girl. I’ll be alright, and so will you.”


As the sun faded and dusk settled into eerie blue, the family had no more words left, and trailed away silently, with one last squeeze of hand for their beloved mother and grandmother.


Only the youngest ran off singing.


Finally, the eldest daughter rose from her hillock. “Shall I help you, Mother?”


“No need my girl. Be with your family, with music and stories by the light of the fire. Make some shortbread, from the recipe I taught you. I shall take care of myself.”


And somehow, the old woman rose gracefully, and stepped towards the waves. They seemed to sense her coming, reaching ever higher towards her, until they lapped at her ankles.


She watched the blue light for a long time, watched it fade to blackness, watched as the stars and moon lit the sea with silver. At that, she buried her arms in the warm fur she’d carried with her, buried her face in the silken pelt.


She changed.


She became silken, warm. She became light and fluid. She remembered her youth in this water, and with one last human laugh, she dove into a wave.


She jumped and spun in the air, taking one last look before she disappeared beneath the waves. Her eldest daughter waved, smiling and crying.


Waiting for her turn to swim away.
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"Where are you from?" A simple question, with a simple and succint answer.

"Oh, I'm from Wingham, a small farming town in southwestern Ontario, about 2 hours northwest Toronto. I actually grew up on a farm, so I'm a total throwback!"
"Well, my ancestors came to canada in the early 1800's from Britain. Mostly English and Scottish, with a bit of Irish and French tossed in for flavour. Definitely northern European - sunshine and I are not friends."
"I work at Agfa HealthCare in Waterloo, as a Knowledge Management Specialist, which is one of those great titles that didn't exist 10 years ago and no one knows what it means. I like to describe it as 'making sure the right information is available to the right people at the right time.' But really it means I sit at a computer all day."
"I live in Guelph with my husband and three year old. It's a total nuts and berries town, very hippy granola. Great city though, small town feel with city amenities. And just far enough away from family to avoid pop-ins."
"I'm so happy to be Canadian. My ancestors could have ended up anywhere! I mean, all the stuff everyone talks about is great - healthcare, personal safety, blah blah blah. But also tectonically safe, with BC being the exception. I can't imagine living somewhere that the earth occasionally tries to shake you off. Air hurts my face for 3 months of the year, sure! So humid you can barely breath for another 3 months, no problem! World trying to shake you off like an ant at a picnic? No thank you." "Clearly, I'm from TV-land... or at least I spend a great deal of time there. All the best people are fictional, don't you know?"

So simple. (People are complex.)

So succinct. (Layers of hidden meaning.)

And you think you know me, know where I came from, know where I've been, know where I'm going.

You think you know what matters to me.

But you don't know me at all.

I'm coming from a place deeply hidden.


A place you'll never see.
Like the elephant,
Your touch only reaches parts of me.
     and you're like me,
     and I'm like you,
We think.

garnigal: (Default)
This one damn near killed me. I wrote three different things, and hated them all. This one, I hated the least. (Also, it's 7:33, and I have few options left).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes it’s easy. You’ve got your eye on the ball, your heart is calm, your breath easy.

Sometimes it’s a struggle. You let your eye wander, your heart is high, your breath comes in little gasps.

And sometimes it’s just not your day. You lose sight of your goal, your heart and head pounding, your breath is totally gone.

And the words fly past, racing, spinning, so brilliant they make you flinch away, make you shiver from their perfection. But you’ve missed the moment, and the words keep flying past, unreachable… and every time you try, every time you attempt that perfect phrase, that ‘bon mot’, every time you create something so close to almost good enough, you know that the next word, just at the tip of your tongue… Would be so much better.
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So.

It’s 2016.

The world ended in 2012, but we haven’t realized it yet.

We’re so used to watching the clock - get up on time, get to work on time, get home on time, eat supper on time, go to bed on time - that we missed the fact that the world is burning around us.

Sure, we’ve got a cough from the smoke, but we can’t afford to miss a day of work.

We just keep going along as we always do. Laughing, crying, yelling at the kids, screwing the hubby in the dark to make it easier to fantasize that he’s actually Nathan Fillion.

But maybe, one day…

Something changes.

Something makes you lift your head, makes you step off the unending hamster wheel. Makes you realize…

It’s 2016.

And the world hasn’t ended.

And even if you have to get up on time, get to work on time, get home on time, eat supper on time and go to bed on time, there’s still time.

Time to do something for you.

Time to be creative.

Time to scream from the rooftops, “I am Ann! I have things to say! I have dreams to fulfill! My life is not over just because I have a job and a house and a husband and a child!”

My life is just beginning.

Just like Season 10.

garnigal: (Default)
I've been feeling like writing, so I went through the [livejournal.com profile] open_on_sunday masterlist to get some ideas. And then I thought I'd go through and check which ones I already did, which led to a scan through all my LJ posts since 2007.

Man, I used to be on here all the time. I used to post 2-3 drabbles a week to open on sunday, plus I was doing taming the muse, Jossverse last author standing, and random memes all over the place. This is also where I documented all the details of my life.

Sorry that I'm so boring now. :(

Maybe I'll try and write something, just to make it worth friending me :)
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Extinction is quiet, without fanfare. There are no martial drum beats tolling each final breath. There is no fireworks show throwing light and colour on pale skin. There is no band playing Taps as blood leaches into thirsty soil. There is no audience, watching with tears in their eyes as the pulse in a throat flutters, stills… stops.

There is only a girl, broken on the ground and watching her too short life flash before her eyes.

There is only a girl, woken panting from a bloody dream and not yet aware that life as she knew it is over.
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I posted this to my AO3 account, but I know some of you will only see it here. I admit, it was a quickie (who knew I could write 12 pages in one day, especially one in which I also worked 8 hours), so if there's any errors or oddities, don't hesitate to point them out and I'll clean it up.

Request was for Buffy and Veronica Mars crossover, Oz/Mac, Logan/Veronica. "Veronica figures out Oz's secret and Mac works her own magic against a werewolf hunter.

ExpandTerrifying in a Whole New Way )
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Volcanoes erupt – spewing poison and changing the very shape of the earth as red hot lava paints glowing trails down the mountain side.

Boilers burst – venting steam and melting the very paint off of the walls as heat and water find every invisible crack and fissure in the seeming solid concrete.

Tempers explode – spewing poison and venting steam. His father’s temper finds every crack in his armour, and paints red welts on his heart and mind that can never be erased.

To be safe, Wesley keeps his poison and his steam inside, where it can hurt no one but himself.
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“Our Father…”

He sits at his mother’s side, but his attention is fixed on Lil Malick’s skirt, and how it displays her dimpled knees.

“Give us this day…”

He leads the prayer now, his strong voice and strong opinions building a church he can be proud of. He looks out over the congregation, attention caught by a girl in a short skirt.

“Lead us not…”

He travels to spread his message and finds himself trusted. If girls start disappearing when he visits their town, he prays all the harder for the poor lost souls, and leads the search parties.

“Amen.”
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She heard her mother downstairs. Usually there was comfort in the little sounds; teacup clinking, low voices on the television, pages turning dogeared as Mom lost herself in a new book.

Those weren’t the sounds tonight. There was tea, but it thumped forcefully. She could hear every footfall as Mom paced back and forth., and the television was as loud and angry as their argument.

She ached to go down, to let Mom hold her while she cried out her misery. But, as she stood with one leg out and one in, it was clear that wasn’t an option anymore.
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Back from my honeymoon and the first thing I had to do was write a drabble for open_on_sunday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was sixteen when he came to town, with his clean, unstained shirts and heavy books in unrecognizable languages.

Her hands were hard and calloused from working in the fields, burned from cooking meals over a wood burning stove. Her clothes were dull from washing, simple and plain in design.

But he said he saw something in her, a bright spark that set her apart from her family and friends. He gave her hope that she wasn’t trapped into this life, made her dream of escape.

And he pressed a stake into her hand and led her into the dark.
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She thought next year she might try out for cheerleading. The outfits were cute, even if the football team sucked.

She thought next month she might cut her hair. She was so tired of wearing it in a ponytail all the time.

She thought next week she might buy a new jacket. She’d saved enough from babysitting to cover the one she’d been eyeing.

She thought tomorrow she might go to the Bronze. It was that or stay home with her parents, and that’s just too pathetic.

She thought she heard someone behind her… and that was her last thought.
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Kendra didn’t play. Never built castles with rocks and twigs, never held a rag doll and crooned a lullaby.

Kendra didn’t tease. Never leaned on a car and looked through lowered lashes at a handsome boy, never giggled and squeezed his hand.

Kendra didn’t shout. Never clenched her fists and stomped her feet, never argued for one more hour before curfew.

Kendra didn’t cry. Never curled on her bed and sobbed her heart out because of some small slight, never grieved a loss with silent tears.

Kendra trained, was called, killed and was killed in her turn.

Faith didn’t play…
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The nights were long.

Eyes strained against dark shadows, searching for the movement that warned there was something waiting for its moment to catch you unaware. Ears filtering the sounds of normal life away, straining for that hint of a scrape against pavement that hinted there was something sharpening its claws.

It wasn’t like war, there were no long moments of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. There was always terror, always something waiting for its moment. She returned home exhausted from the vigilance, not the battle.

“Paper or plastic?”

The nights were long, but the days were longer.
garnigal: (Default)
I don't know why this one gave me fits and wouldn't work until now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ExpandFirst Meetings - The Fanged Four )
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She dances. A frantic twirl to the song she sings, about a truth only she knows the pain of. Each word is acid-dipped, sinking into the delicate flesh of those she loves.

She dances. A slow sway to the tune that fills her head, about a pain she has buried too long. Each note is barbed wire, flaying her flesh from her bones.

She dances to the magic that’s raising smoke from her feet. She’ll burn from the outside in, still frozen in the center.

Hands hold her still, douse the flames, stop the dance.

No one will burn today.

July 2025

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