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04 April 2005 @ 10:40 pm
pinched (with glee and giggles) from caragana_leaves  
And I quote:

"I feel like writing, but all my ideas seem old and dry right now. You, my darlings, are going to fix it.

Reply to this post, and I'll write something inspired by the icon you use. Because aren't icons all about inspiration?"


My response time might be less than instantaneous (y'all know the many splendoured reasons), but every post WILL be given due consideration AND response.


thenk yew.
 
 
 
Sunflower Inkwellwritingrat on April 4th, 2005 07:50 pm (UTC)
Vocabulary is fun.
wench18: Benchwench18 on April 4th, 2005 07:52 pm (UTC)
toweled girl on a bench.

Have fun with this one!
Kelladyjoust on April 22nd, 2005 07:48 pm (UTC)
Funny. She’d thought it would be a lot more difficult.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had time to think about it. When seven o’clock came and went, she’d uncorked the wine. Three glasses and two hours later, she blew out the candles. They were guttering, anyway. The salmon was dry from hours of warming. Into the trash it went. Nothing wrong with the chocolate mousse, though. She ate it as the moon moved over the city.

With dawn, she stood. Her wineglass, smudged with fingerprints and a trace of chocolate, caught the light and glimmered golden as the Grail. “Well.” Her voice sounded thick, strange, as if she’d not spoken in years rather than hours. “Well,” she said again, and stood.

It wasn’t until she’d emerged from the shower, tears washed away with the spray of hot water, that she heard the turn of the key in the lock. She wrapped a towel around herself: armor of white terrycloth. There he stood, shirt rumpled, tie undone, smiling that lopsided, charming smile and smelling conspicuously of cigarettes and whiskey. As if that would mask the scent of perfume and sex. And, for a third time, she said, “Well.”

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had time to think about it. Those long, slow hours of the night. Five years, besides. She’d thought it would be a lot more difficult, letting it all go.

She settled onto the bench. The bus would be along soon. Behind her, the trail of wet footprints was evaporating. Soon there would be nothing to mark the way back, no pebbles or breadcrumbs to follow…
wench18wench18 on April 22nd, 2005 09:37 pm (UTC)
You have no idea how apt this is.

This is PERFECT.

I LOVE this.

You...you are BRILLIANT
Kel: Robin wildladyjoust on April 23rd, 2005 05:55 pm (UTC)
*furiousblush*

Thank you!

Granted, it is a far cry from the original seed of an idea (screwball comedy-ness), but - it's what came out when I started to type.
Trouble: i have found itliteraticat on April 4th, 2005 07:53 pm (UTC)
go to town.
The Only Sane One: [Emo like whoa]ravenclawizard on April 4th, 2005 07:53 pm (UTC)
Glad to help, darling.
Bird on a Wing: Lovecaragana_leaves on April 4th, 2005 08:24 pm (UTC)
Ohhh, you know our Kelly, that you do. *giggles madly*
Bird on a Wing: Hello!caragana_leaves on April 4th, 2005 08:25 pm (UTC)
Um, not trying to sneak in extra iconage. My "official" post is below, on its own.
Kelladyjoust on April 23rd, 2005 09:21 pm (UTC)
In the darkness. Alone.

That was how it was meant to be. In a crucible of training and sacrifice and focus, he’d transformed himself from grieving boy to something – more. Something dark and hard and sharp. A blade. A knight. Rights would be wronged, and justice would be meted out. Alone.

It had happened so gradually, he’d never seen it coming. Kneeling beside the newly orphaned boy, his pain as sharp as the day his own parents had been shot down. “Trust no one save yourself” became “Trust in the boy.” And then, years later, the red-headed girl with more skill than sense and a need to see justice done.

Too, there was the young thief. The servant of St. Dumas. Yet another boy, bright and determined. The daughter of a criminal, set on proving her own worth. Every one of them came to harm. Every one of them was dragged down into the darkness.

Those that survived were changed. The thief became a villain. The bright young boy, in his turn, was left an orphan. Clipped wings could not stop an Oracle from taking flight.

No more, he vowed. No more would he let those near him be harmed. He drew the darkness about him like a cloak. He pushed them away.

He’d trained them well: they pushed back. They remained, stubborn, glimmers of light in his shadowed world. Hard as he was, sword-sharp and strong, he let them win. The darkness would always be there. Waiting. If he was not careful – if he was not constantly vigilant – if he failed to make them strong, he would find himself alone once more.

And that, though he would never admit it to a one of them, was not to be borne.
Scout: fencingcretey on April 4th, 2005 08:13 pm (UTC)
I was so tempted to use my stargate one, but I decided not to.
Bird on a Wing: Teller of Talescaragana_leaves on April 4th, 2005 08:24 pm (UTC)
Here ya go! Have fun!
Kelladyjoust on April 23rd, 2005 07:08 pm (UTC)
The route is never the same, but the Postman always knows where to go. An old farmhouse with a sagging roof gets a water-stained envelope. The paper inside is tissue thin. Every inch is covered with cramped, careful handwriting. Several lines are obscured by bands of black: classified information. “The Germans are on the run, and no mistake. We turned them back at ___________ and there is nothing to stop our advance all the way to _________. I’ll be home by spring. Count on it. Until then, my every thought is of you…” Floorboards creak as the Postman steps up to the mail slot. Half a dozen cats sleep in the pale golden sunlight. One stirs to bat idly at a trailing bootlace. He leaves the spinster’s house behind as the whine of cicadas mingles with the roar of traffic on the distant highway.

A neat townhouse, landscaped with geometric precision, receives a postcard from Cairo, dated 1954. There is another, from Istanbul (October, ’55), and yet a third postmarked Sri Lanka , January ’56. Great Aunt Cecily always meant to travel. “One day,” she would say. “When Papa is well.”

The brightly painted Victorian at Alamo Square sees a card with the words, “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” And, “You have a grandson.”

Under the black rock in the stone wall behind the cornfield he slips this note: “Best friends 4ever and ever.” It settles against a dusty string bracelet and several clumsily painted beads.

The Postman pauses at the Corner Store, closed four years ago when a CVS opened on Railroad Street. He sets the sack at his feet, leans against the wall and, hands tucked into his pockets, closes his eyes. Weariness washes over him. They are heavy, these letters. Words never spoken. Lines not written. Regrets and sorrows and promises that were meant to be kept.

They whisper, papery and dry and impatient. The Postman lifts the bag over his shoulder and sets off again.
Ea Quae Legiteaquaelegit on April 4th, 2005 08:31 pm (UTC)
The best part is that this is not photoshopped, and it really came from my own point-and-click.
Miranda: Floundermirmie on April 4th, 2005 08:45 pm (UTC)
*evil laugh* have fun, dear.
Anne: First Lovephloxyloxy on April 4th, 2005 08:53 pm (UTC)
*replies*

I need more creative icons...
Jessica Arielliret on April 4th, 2005 09:08 pm (UTC)
Lemony Snickett. Or, writer with typewriter and windows.
Helen: sleepsilawenyai on April 5th, 2005 04:51 am (UTC)
No Shakespeare, d'you hear? None at all. :P
Jobs, baby, Jobs!picoland on April 5th, 2005 05:36 am (UTC)
::snikt::
Ilena Ayala: Sunsetnetsearcher on April 5th, 2005 05:45 am (UTC)
So many icons...so little time. :)
Angelosomnamscream on April 5th, 2005 07:42 am (UTC)
you know youve got to have something for this one...:)
Tart Tart: LittleReduberlibra on April 5th, 2005 12:39 pm (UTC)
Enjoy.
the ro-bot.autobot on April 6th, 2005 03:42 pm (UTC)
I just have to cut in here. I'm playing Little Red Riding Hood in "Into the Woods", and thusly, I love your icon.

Now I'm done.
the_wild_bunny on April 5th, 2005 02:20 pm (UTC)
Oooh...memememememememememe!!
Mairearanturas on April 5th, 2005 04:57 pm (UTC)
Boy are you going to be busy -- :-)
Adrienne C.: Godward betroadrienne429 on April 5th, 2005 07:25 pm (UTC)
me too....
Cute idea. Sounds like fun.
the ro-bot.autobot on April 6th, 2005 03:41 pm (UTC)
*wants to play*
Vampcursevampcurse on April 8th, 2005 11:43 am (UTC)
*sparklies*