Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Imperial Palace, the Brandons’ suite:

Without seeming to do so, Colonel Brandon keeps a careful eye on his wife as she sits, reading. At least, that is what she obviously means for him to think she is doing, though she has been holding the book for half an hour and has not turned a single page. I know she can read more quickly than that . . . But then, he considers that he has little right to speak, for he has been doing precisely the same thing as Mary Anne: sitting in an armchair, holding a book and trying to seem . . . unconcerned? No. She knows him too well for that. If his success is any better than Mary Anne’s, it is only because he has had more practice in . . .

Dissembling? It does not seem right to think so. Dissembling, as if I would deceive my wife. But I have lived longer than she and perhaps know more of concealing my thoughts.

He will conceal these thoughts from her, if he can. It is best. Whatever release of strain and tension he might have achieved during his practice with Guardsmen, the good effects have been lost. Therese in the dungeons, and The Interrogator . . . Brandon shakes his head. And Mister de Valera. It is curious that Mary Anne has not asked me about what passed between them. Perhaps it is better she does not. Sighing, Brandon lays aside his book and glances once more at Mary Anne, to find her looking back at him.

A little embarrassed at catching each other out, they both smile. Mary Anne closes her book. “Christopher, is Therese all right? She seemed a bit agitated earlier.”

Brandon laughs. A little. “Yes, ‘agitated’ would be one way to describe it.”

“But that she’s here at all . . .” Absently, Mary Anne turns the book over and over in her hands, looking at it without seeing it. “Surely The Empress cannot have summoned her. To expect her to testify without giving her time to recover-“

“It seems she is here of her own accord.”

Mary Anne does not look as surprised as Brandon had expected. “Yes, that would have to be it. Because Dev would never have forced such a thing on her. She must have made up her mind that it was the thing to do, and that was it.” A twitch of amusement at one corner of her lips. “Poor Dev.”

Poor Dev, indeed. Brandon, recalling the passage through the dungeons, can barely restrain a shudder. And poor Miss Therese. To have to pass by that man . . . and that I did not even permit her to answer HIM back.

Brandon might smile over that, if there were any room for amusement in his heart at the moment. But where HE is concerned there is none, not at a time such as this.

And what was Miss Therese, to HIM? A toy. A plaything. HE said as much. The Interrogator has no feelings for her, beyond how she might prove diverting. Not any particular hatred. What HE made her suffer . . . what, then, might HE be capable of when . . .

But Brandon will not permit himself to finish the thought. He suppresses it, with what feels like the physical effort of closing a heavy door. He knows a thing or two, himself, of what an obsessed man can do-a man with nerve, intelligence, and singleness of purpose. What The Interrogator might do in the case of one for whom HE does have any feelings . . .

To the heavy door, add a heavy bolt. Add two.

“What of your meeting with Her Majesty, Mary Anne? Why did she insist upon seeing you alone?”

Brandon blinks-he must have imagined it, that look in Mary Anne’s eyes, there and gone. His beloved who knows just how beloved she is would have no reason to regard him with such alarm.

But her voice is neutral. Controlled. “She told me that I was not to speak of it.”

It is the truth, Brandon knows. Mary Anne would not lie to him-though she might keep some of the truth to herself.

“Not speak with your own husband?” Striving for lightness. “It is a secret, then. Something to do with-“ There can be no lightness, now. “-the trial?”

“Yes.”

She is very still in her chair. Still and wary, practically poised for flight.

Quietly, Brandon rises from his chair and crosses to Mary Anne’s, drawing her to her feet and taking her in his arms, holding her against him and waiting as the tension drains from her, until she relaxes and warms to his embrace, pressing against him in that particular way that is hers, all hers, as he strokes her back, as his hands rise to bury themselves in her hair.

“She told you that you were not to speak of it.” At her ear. There is a movement of her head-a nod? Or an invitation, offering that creamy throat.

“Very well, then,” continues Brandon, accepting the invitation. “Let us . . . not speak of it . . .”

MA--Well, the Brandons must keep themselves occupied until they are summoned to testify! ;-)
La Forza del Destino, R dearest? Not Turandot? (Which is coming up on the Met Broadcast in about a month, I think . . ., - Friday, January 31, 2003 at 19:31:41 (PST)

He looked into the mirror, disgusted with himself. There he was, fully decked in a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. Muggle clothes.

Snape had been able to go to the yacht party and evade wearing such infernal artifacts but now he looked like some Gothic stranger who’d just been pulled off the street. He had even tried to pull that jet-black hair of his into a pony-tail like how he had worn it for the party, but he despised the way it shaped his face. The crooked, large nose was enough to make any man appalled but to show his entire face… he shuddered.

He shifted uneasily in these new garments and turned all directions in the mirror.

"What in the-?" cried the mirror suddenly in a gruffy voice. It then gave a hoot and a coarse chuckle. Snape was enraged.

"Who asked YOU?" He then shifted and slid on his boots. Giving himself one last glance in the speculum, he left, mumbling things such as, "Never again… I’m a disgrace…" and closed the door to his quarters to leave the mirror still bellowing in laughter…

********************************************************

Meanwhile, in a cold, dark, musty cubicle of a room…

He awoke, screaming, a green flash of light filling the darkness within and drawing in a flock of moths. He instantly sat erect and pulled up his sleeve. It was, indeed, glowing with a passion. The scar was aflame, a burning ball of fire, and he bit his lip to harness himself from crying. Sketched within the scar, we can now witness, a skull… and a serpent…

Suddenly, he looked up, his forget-me-not blue eyes reflecting in the glimmer. "M-m-master?"

A dark, shadowed figure in the corned slowly nodded.

Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Short, yes, but it serves its purpose! :), - Sunday, January 26, 2003 at 10:01:27 (PST)

Scene: A ringing telephone.

One. Two rings. Then . . .

"Hello?" The daylight of Los Angeles finally floods the tiny numbers on the telephone. She instantly thinks of Hans.

"You picked up the phone."

She closes her eyes. Relief. This will be news. Anything. "Colin!" All she can manage.

"I didn't think Hans would call you." She hears a note of honesty, in place of the dry, sometimes reserved, almost practiced humour she expects from Colin.

Something is awry.

"Has anything happened?" She stops short. She does not know where to begin, in the frame of things. She is--removed. Away. Apart. This makes her wince. This, she hates.

Colin sighs, does not know where to begin. "It's--there's so much going on--but you shouldn't worry--" He knows this sounds impossibly lame, and quite thin, but he can't think of any other way to--

"Has anything happened to HIM?"

Surely she means---"You mean, is Hans . . . " he begins.

"Colin, has--"

Silence fills the cables, the long miles of telecommunication threads which connect them, which link them, one and one, which rarely ever equals two.

"Are you asking about your husband? Or about the defendant?" He knows this sounds impossibly cruel, but he cannot help himself. The letter, taken. Someone will sound a call for mercy. Clemenceaux For HIM. For a man who has damaged so many . . . so many women who might otherwise . . .

In the silence, he hears her sorrow. And laments his part in it.

"There has been an attempt to--Renie, the Imperial Guard and palace security have ensured that--" He falters.

She hears his agony. "Colin--I should never have stayed here. I'm sorry I asked you to act in my stead. It was unfair." He lets another brief silence slip by. He would wait forever, for her. "I--" she takes a deep breath--and Colin immediately loses his heart. Again. Her voice. "I can't sort this all out." A pause. "I need--"

He begins to whisper that it's alright, even before she has uttered, "a friend". Recovery comes quick, when . . .

His voice is level. Reassurance. "Everything's going as planned. Your letter will be read at the trial--that's a guess, mind you, but it's odd's on. And Hans, he's holding up. All things considered--"

"Shall I come?"

Three words.

Colin had prepared himself for this question, for this moment. Knowing she would--had to--ask. He steels himself. For he would like nothing more than to be with her. If only to know she is alright.

"They're expecting you--tonight--the financiers--didn't I leave you the appointment information for tonight?"

"Tonight? Wait--" He hears her walk toward her office, shuffle through papers. "You can't be serious.....Colin."

"Afraid so. I know you love opera, though." He nearly holds his breath.

"There's no way out, is there." He hears the resignation in her voice. If only he could...

"No. It's business. Big business. You know that." He tries for a smile. "It's a tragedy. You'll love it."

"Have you seen it?"

He feels too far to comfort her, and too close for comfort. "La Forza del Destino". No."

"You even know which one." She cannot help but realize that he is looking out for her, even if she will not--cannot--permit it. "I'll let you know how it--" She breaks off mid-sentence.

"Renie, please. You're where you have to be. You can't be everywhere. It's just not possible." He means it as salve.

But it stings her like--like iodine in an open wound.

"Impossibility is nothing more than a failure of the will, and a narrowness of the spirit. Nothing, nothing is impossible, if you know where to look."

He does not argue. Does not dare.

"Hans is counting on you."

"I'm glad we understand each other, Colin. You know where to reach me."

*Click*

The green flecks in her brown eyes fly about like electrons, protons, neutrons, each finding their paths; an orbit: habitual, newly-found, timeless, and definitive.

R
An opera in in four acts . . . , - Thursday, January 23, 2003 at 23:25:16 (PST)

Day Eight of the Investigation
Police Station The phone rang. Detective Miles Graff watched his partner walk over from the conference table.

"Silvert," Detective Ekaterin Silvert said crisply into the receiver. "What?" she demanded angrily as Graff raised questioning brows. He watched her hook her chair over with her foot and drop into it. "Well I am now," she snapped at the person on the other end.

Graff didn't hear what Silvert was told, but it made the blood run out of her face.

"When?" she whispered into the phone. As Graff watched, her face became more and more frozen. "No, that's all right," she said, thickly. "Yes, thank you for letting me know. Yes, I shall. And yourself. Thank you. Goodbye." The last was choked out into a receiver halfway to its cradle.

Graff lifted a questioning look to his partner, who turned to face him with brimming eyes. "Ekaterin?" he asked, standing.

"Teresa died this morning," she blurted. And the threatened tears fell. Silvert wiped her eyes with careless hands, but it didn't help. The tears were immediately replaced with others, just as swift and hot as their predecessors. Her partner stood behind her, one hand solidly on her shoulder, not saying anything.

"Do you know," she began casually, "whenever they tell me that someone has died, they always ask me if I'm sitting down." She snarled with a sudden burst of rage. "What stupid f*cking thing to ask."

Graff put his other hand on her other shoulder and stood a silent watch as she buried her face in her hands and wept.

-----------------------------------

"Where's your charming other half today, Detective?" Barbara Vanders asked drily. She took a sudden step back as Graff's grey eyes turned into steel gunbarrels.

"Helping arrange her best friend's funeral," he replied shortly. He didn't wait for her stammered apology. "Don't push it." He looked down at his notebook. "I'll be back here at 3 this afternoon to speak to you," he told her, then turned away and barrelled down the hall.

Barbara exchanged wary glances with Sandy, who had poked her head out of her cubicle, and shrugged. She had more than enough on her plate without getting into another round with the police.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
In Memory of Teresa Morrow, friend, co-worker, photographer extraordinare, - Tuesday, January 21, 2003 at 09:55:46 (PST)

Still here... still reading. You all are going to be sooo sorry when I start writing again.
Claudia
- Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 20:05:15 (PST)

LOL! I missed that beeeauuuuutiful rendition before I posted. HE can be quite inspirational. . .
Cindie, again
Sell it sister!, - Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 11:59:59 (PST)

The Palace Library:

Cynthia ultimately managed a rather breathy “good morning” in response to the Vicomte’s greeting.

His mouth curled into a half smile. “How may I be of service, Madame?”

She mentally gave herself a shake. Had he always had such long sensuous fingers? When he’d turned the page in the book she had seen his index finger caress its way down the paper and then carefully, as if it were delicate tissue, turn the page. The oversized cuffs of his eggshell white jacket would look absurd on anyone else but he belonged in all those layers of fine embroidered silk. With his leg extended out before him she could see the buttons up the inside leg of his trousers from boot to just below the knee. From her perch over the chair Cynthia caught a whiff of lavender water and male. He shaved so that a thin line of beard and the silk at his throat framed the neck which was turned so those gold predator’s eyes could fix her in there sites. One eyebrow quirked up.

“No. I mean, you can’t. Thank you. I was just looking for a book to help me put a name to a bird I saw earlier.” Why was she so discomposed? Kings, Anton had remarked that she’d dined with kings. Surely she ought to be able to handle one languid Vicomte.

“Ah, I see.” He drawled out the words as if he wanted to make them last. “Perhaps what you seek is here.” With a wave of his hand he indicated the volume now resting upon his lap.

“Oh, well, I don’t know Monsieur. The bird I saw wasn’t nearly that big.” She nodded toward the falcon staring from the facing page. “Or fierce.”

“Then we shall start with something more gentle.” He began to turn back towards the beginning of the book. “But first you must be made comfortable.” He began to stand but Cynthia waved him back and moved to pull up an ottoman. Valmont placed the book upon the surface where he had been resting his feet and they looked over the pages together. “Was it something like this?” He pointed to a brown and yellow speckled specimen.”

“Actually, yes. But with yellow piping on its wings and more brown on its belly.”

“You must mean the yellow speckled titflitter.”

“Monsieur, you are making that up.”

“No, I will show you.”

He turned the pages and pointed to a small brown and yellow bird. It was the one she had noticed and had not been able to find in the regular bird books. “How did you know!?

He simply shrugged his shoulders sending silk rippling and the odour of lavender water wafting. “It is lovely and unusually rare. Two things that make it worthy of notice.”

“It is pretty.” The illustration’s caption also identified as a type of finch. Her finger traced the shape of the little creature and she looked out the window as if hoping to see one just outside. When she looked back his hand rested just next to hers. His head was bent over the book and she could feel his breath on her arm. As she turned to look at him he turned to regard her with dancing eyes. “Monsieur, you are being quite silly.”

“On the contrary, ma chere femme, I am being most deliberate.”

“If that is the case, mon chere homme, then you need to direct your deliberations elsewhere.”

Valmont shrugged, “as you wish. But do not mistake my attentions for anything but what they are; an offer of my friendship, my ear and my shoulder. I pray you, do not dismiss me lightly for that would be a grave mistake.”

“You make that sound so serious.”

“I am serious. I would give my entire wardrobe to be there for you when you next need a handkerchief, so that I might hand you one of mine.” His lips parted to reveal a line of teeth even whiter than the silk he wore.

“Your entire wardrobe! This is serious, for your raiment is very fine indeed.”

“What! Not the finest? Where have I erred, good lady? For your opinion in such matters is to be much sought after.”

“Now I know you are mocking me, for I am no judge of men’s fashion. But I have seen a good many well dressed men about the Palace these last few days.”

“You must point them out to me so that I might observe their couture. It would not do for me to be outmatched by any one here.”

“Save the Empress of course. But then, perhaps her wardrobe would not suit you.”

“Now it is you who make jokes at my expense. But I do not mind, for it means that your spirits are restored. Now, we must continue your project and put a name to each and every bird in the Realm.”

“Why not?” The trial would begin soon enough and this pleasant diversion could do no harm.

Cindie
- Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 11:54:08 (PST)

Break added.
Oooh, that hurt so good...
D.o.C.

Oopsie! D.o.C. please--there should be a paragraph break after that second "evenin' sun go down . . ." and "Mary Anne, hard at work." Thanks.

When you write about HIM you'll forget where to put your breaks,
When you write about HIM you'll forget where to put your breaks
And when HE's done it won't just be your heart that aches . . .

MA
- Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 10:47:13 (PST)

FOF set, the cubicles:

There is a distracted look on Cindie’s face as she walks down the corridor. Lots of hard work going on here, she knows, but right now it seems as if her work load has doubled. Keeping up her Palace storyline while (and at the same time) continuing as The Director’s assistant-and goodness knows that involves plenty of extra work at the moment. All these new people on board. Still, in the great tradition of FOF, newcomers are welcomed-but then, there is also the paperwork for Leigh’s prolonged leave of absence, and Hart’s into the bargain. And I was about to forget what he said about those pay forms for Therese. I might’ve known he wouldn’t be so hard on her as he sounded. Add to that all of the junk mail that had been coming to the front office lately . . .

It is then that Cindie becomes aware of a sound that brings her to a full stop there in the corridor.

Oh, I sure hate to see that evenin' sun go down,
Yeah, I sure hate to see that evenin' sun go down
. . .

Mary Anne, hard at work on her storyline, and it is nothing new for her to sing over her work. But . . . "The Saint Louis Blues"?

'Cause I done heard The Interrogator's come to this town.

A dry smile from Cindie. Definitely NOT "The Saint Louis Blues."

Got the Mister I blues, just as blue as I can be,
That man's got a heart like a rock cast in the sea,
And I can't sleep at night wonderin' what HE's gonna do with me . . .

That melancholy minor-key wail-it should be heartrending. And would be, save for the note of laughter in that contralto croon. Cindie catches herself just before she snickers, and edges closer.

Mister I feels like talkin' You better feel like talkin' too,
Yeah, if HE feels like talkin’ you better feel like talkin’ too,
'Cause if you don't feel like talkin' HE'll take you to a barbecuuuuue . . .

Hard head, hard head,
You heard just what I said
Oh, oh
Oh, oh

Mary Anne’s voice, soft at first, grows steadily louder-and she is in better than usual voice today, quite forgetting herself as she puts heart, soul, and lungs into her musical offering.

HE wants your signed confession and HE wants it there right now,
I said HE wants that signed confession and HE wants it riiiiight now,
You better sign on the line, baby, or you're gonna play touchdown. . .

There is a stir in one of the cubicles, and the noise of someone-perhaps two someones-not bothering to stifle their laughter.

HE will have you thinkin' white is black and black is white,
I tell you HE will have you thinkin’ white is black and black is white,
By the time HE's through with you you're gonna say that wrong is right . . .

Cindie jumps as Tory, in Therese’s nearby cubicle, decides to join in with an ear-splitting howl. There is an exclamation of "Enough, already!" and Cindie is forced to jump back once more as a blue and yellow koosh ball sails across the corridor within six inches of her face. It lands in Mary Anne’s cube and the FOF Blues Festival is cut off with "Hey!" and then a burst of giggles.

"Sorry!" trills Mary Anne, sounding not at all sorry as the ball flies back across the corridor and Sandy calls out, "It was Alex’s idea, Mary Anne!" prompting the inevitable indignant outburst from Dane. "It was NOT!"

More laughter from Mary Anne’s cubicle. "I do ‘Saint James Infirmary’ as an encore, want to hear?"

"NO!" from at least four voices in various enclosures.

"Oh, all right then," harumphs Mary Anne. "Everybody’s a critic!" And then quiet reigns once more.

Cindie lets out the breath she had been holding and steals down the hallway to Therese’s cube where Tory stands at the baby gate stretched across the doorway. At Cindie’s approach, she sticks her head over the gate and makes big puppy eyes, and Cindie is glad to oblige her with a good round of petting and ear-scritching. "Hey, dollbaby. Yeah, you miss Therese, don’t you? And Dev." Neck-rubbing. "And Mistral. All the people who usually spoil you are down on the Dungeon set right now, aren’t they? And left you here all alone. Shame on ‘em, right?"

Tory wuffs her approval of these sentiments, and settles herself down on the floor behind the gate, peering through it wistfully as Cindie moves on down the corridor. Petting Tory won’t get her work done, but it does make a nice break in routine. Oh, and that reminds me-I need to look into that information on the pet room we were thinking about opening. Doggie Day Care. She shakes her head. An assistant’s work is never done.

Thinking over all she has to do, Cindie is almost to the end of the corridor before she realizes that she is singing absent-mindedly, "By the time he's through with you you're gonna say that wrong is right . . ."

Her spine stiffens. Am I, then? We’ll see about that.

MA--luck, Courtney! 8-)
With thanks to Cindie. And with apologies to W.C. Handy, Bessie Smith, and all blues artists living and dead . . . , - Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 10:40:17 (PST)

I know it's been a bit since I've posted, but I will try to get the next bit up this week. If I don't there will be something by next Sunday I hope. I'll be busy packing for my return to college this coming Sunday=(

So I promise more David and Courtney by then. Wish me luck, I know I'll need it=)
Courtney
College...ugh!!!, - Sunday, January 19, 2003 at 10:12:13 (PST)

Yolo! I just popped in to *CLINK* some glasses and welcome back the old and bring in the new birthday! I propose NOT to have a barbeque in celebration...
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Sorry I'm late! Gah and pish posh! , - Friday, January 17, 2003 at 18:43:43 (PST)

Yes, another excuse for champagne...akem. *clink*

To those who have birthdays and who are back...cheers!
Alice
Now, for the main course...easy-over SPAM!, - Friday, January 17, 2003 at 15:27:13 (PST)

Great to have you back, Leigh!

You make it sound like a geriatric ward, Barbara. LOL.

Today's your birthday here, Claudia, so consider this yet another excuse for my favourite beverage (without the spam!) -- *Pop* and *shhhhhshshshshshhh* and *clink* . . . *raises glass* ...*clears throat*...

Happy Birthday. To many more days of friendship and flights!
Renie
When she wakes up, maybe Therese will want to borrow your thigh-highs to deal with Dev..., - Thursday, January 16, 2003 at 14:19:17 (PST)

Oh my god, Claudia lives.... :D

So does Grace and Lukas!
Barbara the Wallpaperer
It is Old Home Week at FoF...., - Thursday, January 16, 2003 at 13:59:40 (PST)

Leigh, welcome back charming bridal monster!!! So good to see Grace and Hart at it again. Here I thought they were still playing that eternal round of golf...

Happy Birthday Ms. Claudia -- good to see you still know how to hit that 'submit' button.
Cindie
One loose thread picked back up, YESSSSS., - Thursday, January 16, 2003 at 12:44:11 (PST)

Yay! Grace and Hart are back!! :-)
Alice
Hey, Clods! Happy Birthday!! *grin*, - Thursday, January 16, 2003 at 09:41:42 (PST)

"You walk in out of the blue after two years and expect me to have a plan for you?" Hart was still not over the shock of seeing Grace walk through the front door of his Bel Air home. She had opened the door with the keys he had given her long ago. He had never changed the locks. Just never got around to it, he told himself. He waited for her to speak, glad for a moment to collect himself. It was the first time in a long time he could remember not knowing exactly what to do next.

"Once upon a time you were willing to plan out my entire life for me," she said. "Where to live, how to dress... how to think." An edge of bitterness crept into her voice.

"Then why are you back?" He asked slowly, looking at her intently, looking for some clue to her abrupt reappearance.

"I don't have an answer that would make sense to you," she said, her voice trailing off.

"Then let's start with the easy questions. Where were you?" Hart was back in control.

"Here and there." Evasive. She was there to ask questions, not answer them. "Actually here quite a bit. Los Angeles is so big that it's astonishingly easy to . . . " she faltered.

"Avoid people you don't want to see?" He finished for her. And immediately realized why he had never been able to find her.

"Well, yes." She looked him straight in the eye. "Hiding in plain view. You taught me that." And too much else, she thought, but didn't say out loud.

"This is going to take some time," he said.

"Maybe, and maybe not," she told him.
Leigh
Hello MA! So nice to "see" you!, - Wednesday, January 15, 2003 at 23:54:39 (PST)

Grace and Hart, together again? YIPPEE!!!! 8-D

MA--should I add a ki-yay to that?
Happy Birthday, Clods! (Even though *here* it's still the 15th), - Wednesday, January 15, 2003 at 21:08:58 (PST)

"You left without saying goodbye," he said, accusingly.

"I know," she replied, glumly.

"Well, do you have an excuse?" his temper was starting to show, slightly, but he maintained that languid nonchalance she knew so well.

She thought about it. Excuses, sure. Truckloads. Justifications, no. It was difficult to say what she meant. "I didn't intend to be gone so long." It was a weak response and they both knew it.

His sigh was audible. "I didn't think you were like that. It's as though you went out for coffee and came back three years later."

"Two years. Less than two years," she protested. "And I don't drink coffee."

"Difficult to remember a detail like that after so long," he sniped back.

This was going nowhere. She wondered if she had made the right decision in coming back. She had left so suddenly, and come back without warning. Probably better to give him time to adjust. Time to figure out if he really wanted her back.

She reached for coat and car keys. "Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I don't belong here anymore."

She turned toward the door.

He stepped between her and the door. "Where do you think you're going now, Grace?"

"Why don't you tell me, Lukas?"
Leigh <lparker@wyca.com>
testing the waters..., - Wednesday, January 15, 2003 at 19:53:04 (PST)

Yes, you're right Renie - it is today. And I didn't forget you honest, I just have been absent from FOF for far tooooo long. Need some bonding and cream cake throwing to get back into it ;)

Belated happy birthday, and love you all.
Claudia
- Wednesday, January 15, 2003 at 14:33:58 (PST)

That's why I said "preferred" instead of just "over Spam"!

Cindie, why do I think old Val could write the book he's reading...
How did I know you'd take a wet bite anyway!
R ;-) , - Wednesday, January 15, 2003 at 14:33:29 (PST)

Champagne preferred over spam?! Euwwwwww! *wrinkling nose* Dearest, why waste good champagne by pouring it over spam?

MA
Sorry. I couldn't resist. ;-), - Tuesday, January 14, 2003 at 18:15:19 (PST)

Mmmmmmmm, what marvellous people you are. Champagne preferred over spam, yes, DOC, thanks. *pours* Thanks for the birthday wishes (dearest MA, Alice, Cindie and Courtney) and for the delicious chocolates (thanks Diane), and that surprise song (Barbara, I shudder to think how the rest of that ditty goes...); Therese, I think I should choose the latter over the former, given a choice!

Thanks for the warm wishes, I can honestly say each of them was really appreciated.

Now, to the business at h*nd . . .

Renie (very real)
Claudia, I seem to remember your birthday is on the 16th of January..., - Tuesday, January 14, 2003 at 10:14:38 (PST)

Ahhhhhh, Cindie . . . you really know how to push a librarian's buttons. 8-) And Therese! THERESE! Wake up, gal! How can you give Dev the thwacking he deserves if you're lying there in a dead faint?!

MA
Unless, of course, seeing Therese faint is even *worse* than being thwacked, for him . . ., - Tuesday, January 14, 2003 at 05:00:42 (PST)

The Palace:

Cynthia had gone into the library in the guest wing first. Were this even the grandest of manor houses it would have been an impressive collection with its stacks to the ceiling and novels and reference works galore. It hadn’t had what she was looking for, however, and a footman ultimately directed her to the main library.

It was glorious.

There were windows all along one wall that soared from knee to nearly the top of the ceiling. They were narrow, not quite two feet wide, but spaced so that the room was flooded with light. There were neither draperies nor blinds but neither was there any glare or any fading from sunlight. Cynthia suspected she knew from whence such glass had been ordered. One of the Gruber’s more ubiquitous products. Between the windows hung in inlayed wood frames were architectural drawings of the Palace itself. Surely they must be reproductions for the originals must be long lost. Here the books also reached to the ceiling in copious rows and with the same sliding ladders the smaller guest wing library had possessed. These ladders, however, also had inlayed wood patterned up the sides.

The ceiling looked to be domed and painted in cream and a classic light blue with gilt trim. The crystal chandeliers which augmented the natural light managed to not overwhelm the room. The reading room attached to the library had rows of tables with individual lamps spaced along their length as well as individual desks and an area with comfortable looking leather armchairs with floor lamps. It still had the high windows but was in slightly darker tones from the main collection. There were numerous smaller rooms which housed various specialized topics and a staircase which promised even more treats above. Each room had sculptures and display cases. All of it museum quality, if any museum were lucky enough to get its hands on these items.

After gawking for some time Cynthia finally began to focus on the books themselves. She located the section she wanted via the wall map but there were personnel here too that were ready to be of assistance. She settled down in a chair in the reading room which was adjacent to the windows. There were bird feeders placed outside and she was able to match several birds. There was one, however that eluded all of her attempts at identification so she went back to the stacks in search of another volume. The large one she’d noticed earlier on birds indigenous to this area was missing. When she returned to the reading room she noticed that a chair on the other side of the room facing away from her was also occupied. She was sure she’d been the room’s only occupant earlier. An elegant but decidedly masculine foot extended out and rested upon a foot stool. She could just see a hand turn the page of an oversized volume. A flash of the illustration was just visible. Curious, she walked up to the chair and peered over the back. The large book was open to a page featuring illustrations of birds of prey. A golden eyed falcon peered out of the pages. The man who’d been studying the page turned to look at her and she was met with the same predatory glitter of a raptor’s eyes in the person of the Vicomte de Valmont.

He looked for all the world like a falcon in the dive until he blinked. “Bon matin,” he smiled up at her. She smiled back but could not immediately find her voice.

Cindie
Pimpernelian homaging.
Therese fainted?! Oh my. I thought that was MA's job. . . , - Monday, January 13, 2003 at 17:10:48 (PST)

It was hours later when Snape had finally pulled out of his "hangover." His mind fully began to fully clear and the past events in the last 24 hours washed over him like a tidal wave. He realized, now, while pouring in ingredients to the *medicine* that whatever he was creating at this moment was either a nasty trick or something as far off in stupidity as the planet Saturn- and he had fallen for it. Had he not been a man who lived up to his word (a quite unknown fact about this melancholy professor) he would have dissed his agreement immediately and gone on with studying what potion to torture his students with next. His hand, the skin scratchy and dry from his constant work with dehydrating substances, kept lurching to his head, ready to knock himself over flat for being such a fool. He swore never to imbibe butterbeer again, since, for, within it contained a matter not as deadly as alcohol, but just as overwhelming to the brain.

The cauldron sieved, a smoke of faint gray uplifting into the air. It made his eyes water, so constantly he was dashing for tissues. The liquid inside of it resembled that of lumpy glue, and his nose wrinkled at it’s horrid smell- something a lot like decay intermixed with rotten eggs. Surely, he told himself, this could not be a medicine! But, though gritted teeth, he continued to stir. Never again will I lower myself to such standards as this… making something for a Muggle… Hah!…What look of scorn McGonagall would give me if she was to see me now, standing here, a ninny among all men! A disgrace! Forever more I shall feel ashamed… associating with that Muggle man… accepting his ridiculous plea…damn me. Damn me.

The liquid inside began to boil, a sign that the last ingredient was needed. In went half a pound of the shark’s liver that he had taken from Mary Anne’s catch.

Snape awoke, ten minutes later, a large bump arising atop his head. He rubbed it and winced- it felt too tender to be touched. Wearily he stood up and shook himself free of bits of dust and broken glass that had been scattered across the room; even above his elbow a jagged shard had cut him, biting into his skin and drawing pale-toned blood. He cursed at the mess and at the ruination of his cloak with vivid anger. But what had happened? All he knew was that one moment he was adding the liver, and the next…

It had all been an explosion, of some sort or other. The disaster it had caused was a surplus of catastrophes- bottles of snake eyeballs had been shattered and now hundreds of round, squishy spheres dotted the floor- vials of poisons had blasted apart from the shock of the quake, their venomous liquid seeping into the floor and causing great holes- the glass of his only window, stained glass actually (was a illustration of a snake to represent his native house), was in pieces- and, just to top things off, the frame of a once important someone to him was in utter sabotage. He gave a mumbled cry of despair, but to his relief and frustration alike, the cauldron and its remains had been left unharmed.

He wobbled over to that enormous, ebony cauldron and peered inside- it still looked like glue. He blew a short whistle of air and slouched his shoulders- a way of him sighing. Snape reached for one of his few (now) in-one-fragment bottles and filled it to the rim, ladling the gritty solution in a little by little. Snape then pocketed the flask.

Snape then, of course, turned to the untidy state that his dungeon was now in. He smiled almost wickedly- it was a pity that the explosion had happened in the first place, but to a Muggle this would be an endless supply of work. But to him, why else be a Hogwarts teacher than have every service at your need? Actually, it was every service at the snap of your fingers. And snap he did. Once, then twice. Almost instantaneously a short, knobbed-knee figure appeared in front of him, apparating from out of thin air.

"You called, Professor, sir?" asked the high-pitched squeaky voice. Snape pointed around him. His own voice became harsh and low and he did not speak much but the house-elf heard every word.

"Clean. Now."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Will be all spit-spot in a jiffy, sir." The house elf bowed, clicked its tongue, and a mop materialized in his hand and a dusting broom in the other.

"Stop your nonsense blabber and get to work… I will be back- do not ask where I am going because it is none of your puny mind’s business- and by the time I return if I see one thing not EXACTLY the way that it should… well… you have been warned."

The house elf nodded vigorously and set off at once. Snape then turned out of the room shutting the door soundlessly behind him.

His lips curled into a formation of something that a normal human being’s brain would not want to concoct. It was evil and devious, and his next words were colder than any day in the Ice Age.

"Diane Ferra… you’re mine."

Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Yeah OK not my best post but I guarantee, everyone, IT WILL GET BETTER!!! lol :), - Monday, January 13, 2003 at 15:21:26 (PST)

The Palace

The procession made its way to the cell area, winding ever further into the belly of the vast grounds that made up Her Majesty's Imperial Residence. Rupert Cadell flanked Therese to her left, Colonel Brandon her right, and a large group of guardsmen brought up the rear, which made a fairly significant escort for a single, slight woman. Even so, Rupert Cadell wondered if such manpower would be enough for the inevitable fallout which was to come. Brandon hadn't been an expected addition to the party, but he was a most welcome one. Therese would benefit from the presence of someone who was familiar to her, and that would probably keep her emotional outburst to a minimum. Or so he could hope.

Brandon was a man torn. He well knew Therese's state of mind, probably better than most, given their unexpected exchange in the tack room of his stable--could it have only been so recent as several days past? But his thoughts could never be far from his dear wife at such a time, especially when HE was so close. Not even the Imperial Guard was good enough for Mrs. Brandon during such a time, and their forced separation, though it promised to be brief, chafed.

As the group stopped while Mr. Cadell himself unlocked a large, heavy, Therese started to glance around, her eyes darting quickly. They were getting close, she could sense it, both in the attitudes of the guards, and the layout of the halls. Gone were the luxurious decorations and ornate touches that marked all other areas of the palatial estate, leaving long halls of stout, bolted doors and functional lighting. They had entered the final area, the block of cells that even now contained HIM, where Eamon waited alongside the creature that had brought all of them together to this point. She blanched, her pulse pounding in her ears as she swayed slightly on her feet. A firm, warm hand immediately clasped her forearm, just above the elbow, and Brandon's deep voice intoned a deep "Steady," above her ear. She nodded her head briefly in response, and taking a deep breath squared her shoulders, which earned her a "There's the way," his brief words comforting her in a way anything more effusive would not have.

This last door opened into a section of hallway punctuated with four large doors, each bearing a number and symbol that was unrecognizable to Therese. The group followed Rupert to the last door on the right, which he also unlocked, but paused before opening. "Are you ready, Miss Gellert?" he asked, looking down at her. "You will have to walk by HIM to get to where we are going, but HE has been restrained, and is in the far corner." He paused, his gaze resting upon her until she finally looked up at him, then nodded slowly.

"I'm ready," she replied, her voice soft, but steady. Both Brandon and Cadell purposely refrained from looking down at the fingers of her left hand, the tips of which were turning white from grasping so tightly to Brandon's left arm.

Rupert opened the door, exposing a long row of connected cells of all descriptions. HE had been moved to a steel barred cell lined with plexi-glass after Eamon's attempt to throttle HIM through the bars; Therese could see HIS figure hunched in the corner of a far cell, as though by schooling herself not to look she had only guarenteed that she would do exactly that. With one final glance at Therese, Rupert stepped forward.

It was a very long hundred yards, and Therese inadvertantly stopped at the sound of HIS voice, her muscles seemingly paralyzed by HIS terrifying tone. HE knew her weaknesses, had always known weakness, feeding upon it as if deriving HIS own strength from what HE took of others. She turned toward HIM as he chuckled, not the rich, deep laugh of happiness or amusement, but the sinister tone of danger. "Bringing me my stray pet, Rupert?" HE inquired with a bored air. "Did you know I hadn't finished with her when we were parted?"

Therese whirled toward the cell at HIS insinuating tone, her face flushing with the conflicting rush of fear and disgust. She was stopped in her tracks by Brandon, who gripped her gently by the shoulder with his left hand to face her back in the direction she needed to go, and attempted to propell her forward. "Let go of me," Therese hissed, the stress and fear combining to rob her of rational thought as she instinctively reacted against any type of confinement, even so light a touch as was Brandon's.

Immediately the hand was removed, as Rupert motioned his guards to ease back a half step, giving the volitle woman some space. This was precisely the scene which he had wished to avoid, though the only way to have prevented it would have involved moving HIM, something simply not worth the inherent risk. Brandon paused, several strategies whirling through his mind; how to lead without force, to compel without touch? "Therese, listen to me," his voice was soft, the deep tone soothing as he leaned toward her. "This is precisely what HE wishes, this spectacle of your pain, and what HE believes to have accomplished. Don't give HIM that, for your own sake."

"Speak up, Colonel, I don't believe I quite caught all of that?" HE drawled, HIS voice carrying over the empty space.

Brandon continued as if HIS taunt had not occurred, then tentatively, with the mereset whisper of a touch, took hold of Therese's hand, laying it on his bent arm in the same manner he would use when escorting her to the dance floor in the ballroom at Delaford. Therese gazed up at him gratefully, swallowing hard as she tried to produce a verbal response. "No, don't speak, just come," Brandon remarked quietly, as once again the group slowly progressed.

"Surely you're not leaving so soon?" HE taunted, HIS expression as unchanged at the lack of response as it had been to Therese's outburst. What was a mere diversion, after all, when there were far larger issues HE must contend with, the primary one being escape.

The cell block came to a right angle at that point, and the group turned away from the cell which contained The Interrogator, and before she could be completely prepared for it, she was standing in front of an open cell, which she was ushered into. Looking up she found herself facing Eamon, who stood at the back of the enclosure, hands bound behind him, and flanked by several Alliance Rose personnel, including Lt. Scout Sifuentes.

The rush of emotion, when it came, was almost disappointing; Therese had been quite certain that she would fling herself at Eamon, screaming at him her frustration, demanding he explain why she had bothered going through hell to remain alive long enough to be returned to him, only to have them separated by his stupid, petty vengence. She had envisioned herself striking him, hard, and being pleased at the forceful sound of her hand as it struck, the pain of contact at least reinforcing that she could, after all she had been through, still feel, that she maintained normal capacities and reactions, despite all she had endured.

Brandon had been prepared for this reaction, as had Rupert, Scout, and Eamon himself, which was why it was not only surprising to Therese, but to everyone else assembled when she did something she had never done before, that no one had anticipated, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

Therese <thereseiam@yahoo.com>
Courtney, welcome! Always great to have new people join in the fracus that is FoF. , - Monday, January 13, 2003 at 14:25:43 (PST)

Renie, Renie, Renie... Is this a real person or a figment of your colective imaginations? Who is this Renie person? Show yourself!!!
nobody
USA - Monday, January 13, 2003 at 13:21:28 (PST)

Renie,

Hope you had an amazing birthday, with all of the requisite celebratory extravagances, or falling short of that, I hope you had great fun, and enjoyed yourself to the hilt!

So just what did Hans do for Renie's birthday, anyone? Anyone? (Or is it, perhaps, not permissible to discuss that given the 'golden rule'?)

Therese
Ack--a week late and many dollars short--story of my life!, - Monday, January 13, 2003 at 08:15:09 (PST)

Renie a very Happy (though late...sorry) Birthday to you!!!
Courtney
- Sunday, January 12, 2003 at 20:39:05 (PST)

Belated birthday wishes, Renie.
Cindie
A spam shaped birthday cake? Nah... , - Sunday, January 12, 2003 at 17:57:59 (PST)

I know I like when people sign my guestbook so I figured I'd sign yours! Have a happy New Year!
Conde <user@nospam.com>
New York, New York USA - Sunday, January 12, 2003 at 16:16:55 (PST)

Happy B-day Renie! I have loads of chocolate in my house right now and on this new diet of mine (eat one meal a day *groan*) I can't have any! So, you up for some grabs, Renie? Anyone? ;) Or maybe I'll make brownies- my specialty! (Sorry, no scones.)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
*protests* NO MORE SPAM, NO MORE SPAM :D , - Saturday, January 11, 2003 at 19:57:30 (PST)

Happy Birthday, Renie! :-) Wish I could come up with a silly song but right now my brain is dead...probably cause I stayed up too late and got up too early. Wishing you all the best!!
Alice
- Saturday, January 11, 2003 at 06:43:24 (PST)

Spam deleted (I'm sure she'd much rather have cake... and Champagne).
Wishing you a Happy Birthday, too, Renie!
D.o.C.

"Spammy birthday to you, spammy birthday to you . . ."

MA
- Friday, January 10, 2003 at 19:16:41 (PST)

"Shhhhhhh."

Whispers.

A hissed, "Stop that!".

Then silence as footsteps approach the door. A hand turns the knob.

Muffled giggling in the dark.

The door opens.

"Happy Birthday, Renie!"

It comes as a joyous song from every throat, and moves into the song itself....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
"Happy birthday to you, you smell like a shoe..."

"Sandy," Alex growled, "stop that.", - Friday, January 10, 2003 at 00:27:21 (PST)

The Empress’ sitting room:

"But it didn’t save HIM, did it?"

The Empress studies Minion for a moment, then replies, "You speak of The Interrogator as if HE were already dead."

"Well?" demands Minion. "Isn’t that the point of what we’re doing here? To be rid of HIM? Unless you really intend to go through with this farce of a trial. But you’re much too smart for that, aren’t you? You-"

"You presume." Coldly. The Empress does not raise her voice, but Mary Anne can almost feel the anger hiss by her like an arrow and Minion crouches in his chair, his fingers plucking at the velvet upholstery. "It is to avoid a farce-a travesty-that I am hearing this case, and hearing it in this fashion."

The Empress turns toward Mary Anne. "Mrs. Brandon, you asked some questions earlier about when and how you would tell your story. You are correct that this will not be a conventional trial, for indeed, how could it be? You will not find in my Realm a jury of The Interrogator’s peers, no more than when HE stood before Justice Angelo. At least-" A tiny smile. "I hope you would not be able to find them. Perhaps I flatter myself that you would not. Nevertheless, HE is too known. And hated. Twelve people who could be trusted with a judgment on HIS life . . ." She shakes her head. "They would be most difficult to find. No, the responsibility-and any blame that will be attached to it-will be mine."

Mary Anne suddenly finds herself thinking of the previous evening: Hans and Colin, and the letter from Renie. The appeal for clemency. If you could find twelve of Renie . . . Renie, who does not want to live in a world without mercy, or see her child born into such a world. But dearest, so long as HIS kind exist, there will certainly be less mercy in the world than either of us wish. Perhaps it’s dangerous for me to harden my heart, but in this, what else can I do? Men like HIM would take the whole world prisoner if they could.

And who else, then, if anyone? Christopher is the most trustworthy man I know, and yet . . . Remembering his appalled response to Renie’s letter before he had calmed himself enough to outline the principle of clemenceau, Mary Anne concludes that HIS life would be most unsafe with Brandon. With a jury of Brandons. What a thought. A smile touches her lips as she imagines the neat ranks of Brandons in the jury box . . .

"Something amuses you, Mrs. Brandon?"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was only thinking that there are no people I’d trust more, with my life or anyone else’s, than my husband and Mrs. Gruber. And yet, even their judgment, and sense, and goodness . . . I do not know whether even they could be equal to such a situation as this."

"And so you wonder how I can, is that correct?"

"Yes." Simply, with no attempt at heroics or provocation. Indeed, remembering The Empress’ steely anger, she would not dare. Mary Anne risks a glance at Minion and realizes to her horror and embarrassment that just a few words from either herself or The Empress might be enough to make him weep. He must have thought he was so close-tell his story to the Alliance, then to The Empress, and The Interrogator dies. But then he finds out we have to do it the hard way . . .

The Empress’ voice. Calm and reasonable. Mary Anne feels a measure of peace return to her, and even Minion lifts his head a little.

"The truth is, Mrs. Brandon, I am not certain to be equal to it, either, and that is why I have good people to help me. Mr. Cadell is one of them, as you know. And there are others like him, all of whom will hear your stories-" Her nod includes Minion, and there is a brief shine in those colourless eyes. "-and weigh them. Some will be The Interrogator’s defenders, some his prosecutors, but all will assist me in arriving at a judgment. That final decision will be mine, as I said. But when I make it, it will be because I am convinced it is the best course for all concerned."

A private jury, then, thinks Mary Anne, but she immediately corrects herself: The Empress’ advisers will not deliver a verdict. That is in The Empress’ hands-in those elegant, beautifully-kept hands, and looking down at her own slim white fingers, Mary Anne trembles to imagine the responsibility . . . and the power.

Reaching out to the tea table, The Empress rings a small bell to summon the servants and then nods to the Guardsmen, though she addresses Minion. "You may return to your quarters, now. I will speak with you again later, or one of my advisers will call on you."

The Guardsmen escort Minion away and Mary Anne gives a sigh of relief. For no matter how she might pity him, Minion is one of THEM and nothing can change that for her. Not at this moment and probably never, though perhaps The Empress sees possibilities in him. That same willingness to give The Interrogator every opportunity-how much more willing she must be to extend that mercy to those enslaved by HIM, even those who entered that slavery with their eyes open. I don’t know whether she’s any more fit to judge The Interrogator than I am, but HE will never stand a better chance than this one. That is for certain.

"-adviser will call on you as well," The Empress is saying, and Mary Anne forces herself to concentrate. "The proceedings might seem rather dull to you, compared to those of a conventional trial. No one will browbeat you or anything of the sort, Mrs. Brandon. You will be questioned, that is all, and you are to answer the questions truthfully. You will be treated at all times with respect."

Mary Anne glances at the door. "Does that apply to all the witnesses?"

"All," comes the firm reply, and Mary Anne finds herself more relieved than ever to be spared her imaginings of Minion coming to pieces before the insistent badgering of a defender. Her Majesty might even make a human being out of Minion. That would make her a miracle worker.

The Empress rises and Mary Anne does so as well, taking that as her signal for departure and sinking into a deep curtsey, then turning toward the exit.

"Oh, and one thing more, Mrs. Brandon."

Mary Anne waits.

"Not one word of this to the Colonel."

Mary Anne hesitates, but The Empress holds her gaze until she murmurs, "Yes, Majesty," and then makes good her escape.

So she is not to have even the dubious comfort of talking all this over with Brandon. But as Mary Anne walks the long corridors of The Palace to return to her suite, she decides that she can understand the wisdom of it. It would not help matters for her husband to hunt down a key Imperial witness and wring his scrawny neck . . .

MA--Happy Birthday, R, dearest. 8-)
Magda, looking forward to more George and Joya. Courtney, you're off to a flying start--welcome to The Realm!, - Thursday, January 09, 2003 at 19:55:33 (PST)

Well, thanks all for the welcome! Diane thanks for the chocolate!! ;) Let me tell you if there is one MAJOR thing that Elizabeth and I have in common it's chocolate! More to come I promise, I have to write it out first due to time allowed on computer when I'm at my parents house=(
Courtney
Hmm, must write more...got distracted Sense and Sensibility was on and my mother rented me Dogma, I've died and gone to AR heaven!!!, - Wednesday, January 08, 2003 at 21:00:17 (PST)

After several months of personal employment upheaval, I believe I can safely promise that I will start posting again around the middle of February. If anyone wants to receive the story up til it was broken off last May, they can email me at: mgrantwich@yahoo.com-putting an ending here to foil the spammers. Thanks for your patience concerned citizen!
Magda
- Wednesday, January 08, 2003 at 16:20:30 (PST)

Welcome to the Realm Courtney, your story is entriguing and has a good start!
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com >
Courtney, you like chocolate? Bought you a box! ;) (Sorry I'm not the type to open a champagne bottle!) , - Wednesday, January 08, 2003 at 15:20:52 (PST)

Magda, I've turned an unflattering shade of blue holding my breath waiting for more stories concerning Joya, George, and Little Richard...hmm, why do I suddenly feel like bursting out in song? Come on girl, get writing!!!!!!!!!
a concerned citizen
- Wednesday, January 08, 2003 at 14:02:38 (PST)

Good start, Courtney; no, you don't have to post your email. Or if you do, write a "foo" at the very end so the spammers get messed up.
Magda
- Wednesday, January 08, 2003 at 04:43:42 (PST)

Still caught up in David's flash back to six months ago...

"David, I'm going back to London, I have to go." she said and it had hurt her to say it. Elizabeth didn't want to leave him. But her book was done and she needed to go back and meet with her editor and begin the hell that is PR for a new book. There was just something about him that called to her for help. In an instant the craziest idea came into her head.

He sighed. After all he knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. "When do you leave?" he asked feeling as though a rug had been pulled out from under him for the umpteenth time in his life. A part of him wanted to go with her. Of course that was out of the question and he knew it.

"Two weeks at the latest. Listen David-". He opened his mouth to say something. But she put up a hand to stop him. "Please, let me finish. This is- I mean I-" She stopped and walked to the couch in his small apartment and sat. Elizabeth held her head in her hands trying to sort out what to say to David.

He walked over and sat next to her. He wanted to just rub her back or push the hair away from her face. Anything to comfort her. David didn't, not yet. "Elizabeth?"

Only then did she look up at him. He was smiling, something he hardly ever did. But it was enough to give her the confidence she needed to ask what she had to ask. "David, come with me?" There she had said it, now all she had to do was wait.

Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
Thanks again for the welcome. Do we need to post our emails? Been getting serious spam since I started posting=(, - Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 15:56:40 (PST)

Dear Jutta,

I'd e-mail you personally about this but since no one knows your address this is not possible. I have laid my eye upon Snape for quite some time and since you have not posted in a long time it seemed to be that you no longer were in possession of him. I had even discussed this with some of the other fine FOF ladies in the chat from last Thursday and they agreed that Severus could be turned over to me. If you like, Jutta, you may feel free to e-mail me furtherly more on this discussion since I believe that Suzanne and the others wouldn't like us taking up any more of this guestbook space! Thank you!

Diane <hip2cool2crazy@aol.com>
- Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 15:20:07 (PST)

Dear Diane,
I would like to say that the off-screen Snape has been mine for over a year now, although it doesn´t show up on the "official" lists. I know it´s been a while since I last wrote, but nonetheless he´s claimed. Now that you´ve started your story, you should go ahead and continue. But don´t be surprised because I will certainly write something for him as well.

Jutta
- Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 13:29:03 (PST)

Welcome Courtney!

And, I've just printed off 30 pages of FOF, so hopefully will be able to catch up on what you are all doing! Then maybe join in - don't hold your breath!
Claudia
- Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 12:53:46 (PST)

Just wanted to take a peep in and welcome Courtney to the Realm!! :-)
Alice
*pops a bottle of chapmagne*, - Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 11:55:23 (PST)

Spelled David's last name wrong. Should have been Freidman, not Friedman. What can I say, just that I shouldn't be typing things up at 1 a.m.!! Sorry about that.
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
More to come..., - Tuesday, January 07, 2003 at 11:11:41 (PST)

Elizabeth's Flat...same day....

Six months ago he had quit being a cop and picked up everything to follow Elizabeth back to London. But it goes back farther then that...

Elizabeth had come to New Orleans to research and begin writing her latest book. She always did exstensive research before and during the writing of one of her books. This time part of that research involved shadowing a police detective for a month-at least. He thought back on it now.

He was already tired of the job, the people and everything else that went with it. So the last thing he needed or wanted was to have some hot shot writer following him around for a month. That was of course until he saw her. Even at there first meeting he had thought she was plain, he would find out just how wrong he was.

He had expected her to ask question after question re: the profession, him etc, but she didn't. Instead she just watched him, and made notes in her neat little notebook. In fact she didn't say much to him at all until the end of their first week together.

Detective Friedman are you always so quiet around new people? I don't bite if that's what your concerned about." she said smiling at him.

He felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. There was something about her that unsettled him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "No", just around beautiful and strange women he thought. "So Liz, Cpt. Brown tells me you only want to watchme work? Sort of boring don't you think?"

"Not at all. I just want to see how you work, mannerisms, things like that. Oh and Detective I prefer Elizabeth, not Liz, Betsy or any other for of my name, allright?"

OK nice move David, really way to go he thought. Well, this is going to be real fun I can tell already. But suprisingly enough it was fun. Her one month of shadowing turned into four. In those four months they had become friends and he had hoped something more. Then the day came that he had hoped would never come.

Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
Poor David...will anything ever go right for him? Wait and see. =), - Monday, January 06, 2003 at 21:16:41 (PST)

Homage, I forgot to say homage at the end of my last post. Internal homaging, Snapely homaging. . .
Cindie
Yay, go Courtney!, - Monday, January 06, 2003 at 16:27:25 (PST)

Elizabeth's Flat

David Friedman sat on the beat up leather couch, or was it sofa, he could never remember and he didn't care. He was pretending to read some book he'd pulled off the shelf earlier that day. He had yet to read a single word of it. He was too busy surveiling the woman sitting across the room from him. What am I doing?, he thought. He was kust watching. David liked watching her work, day in, day out. After all he'd done it every day these past few months.

Of course he hadn't done just that. He'd gone out, sometimes with her, and sometimes with out her. But this remained his favorite thing to do.

David watched Elizabeth Merryweather click away on her latest novel, or was it an article for the Times? He couldn't remember. She was deep in thought now, he could tell. Her auburn hair (curled slightly) was falling forward into her face, and her sofisticated little glasses were slidding down her nose. But she didn't adjust either. She continued to work.

The open windows in the flat allowed a light breeze into the room, just enough to lightly play with her shirt sleeves. He looked at her again over the book. If you were to see Elizabeth on the street he thought any one would think she was...plain. He knew better. But taking in the outfits she wore like the one today, anyone might think otherwise. Today it was a light cotton shirt and jeans.

Plain he thought again. Then his eyes moved down lower. Ah there he thought, there was where she was different. A hint of a smile touched his lips. On her feet were green striped socks. Yesterday it was some red color with a diamond pattern in orange and browns. He knew no one else would find this amusing, but he did, and he had no idea why. But it wasn't his job to care why or examine every little detail anymore. After all he wasn't a cop now. He hadn't been a cop in over six months.....
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
And away I go...., - Monday, January 06, 2003 at 13:48:24 (PST)

Having explained that it was in fact Hamlet who had Healed her, Chris had been tested for any potential of her own, and then sent on her way. She supposed she was pleased for Hamlet that he had a talent of his own, he’d been so despondent over her natural ability to block other’s thoughts. However, she had to admit to being somewhat jealous too. Healing was such a useful talent, one that could be used to help lots of people. Of course she understood that not everyone was as natural at everything, but she really wished that she’d been able to pick up at least a glimmer of how to do it.

Chris sat down on a fallen log by the stream, staring out into space. Her life had become awfully complicated recently, and she needed some time to sort through her thoughts. She thought about the Sh’rin, and the bizarre closing of the Farm. She hadn’t wanted to dwell too much on it, but there were people at the Farm that she cared about, and she was worried. Although she hadn’t made any close friends in her time there, she used to spend most meal-breaks with two girls her own age who worked in the kitchens. Jen and Lora had been as close to friends as she’d allowed herself to have since she’d been rescued. She hoped that they were unharmed, but knew that this was unlikely.

Chris was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice Ki’li coming up close to her. She had very quickly got used to the unicorn watchers around the two of them, making sure that neither one was harmed by another entity. She was incredibly comfortable around them, and had been for as long as she’d been working at the Farm. She loved the feeling of riding Ki’li, and was pleased that she’d had the chance to do that, even if the circumstances were somewhat unusual.

Suddenly, she realised it. It had been staring her in the face for so long, and she just hadn’t seen it. She’d been worrying about exactly how she’d ended up going along with all this. After all, although the panic and stampede had been very unsettling, she wouldn’t normally have run away like that, never mind with two Equines! Her ethics were a product of the current age, and she would never had taken something as valuable as the Equines and run away, no matter what they said, not as easily as that. And now, the answer was staring her in the face, quite literally.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Chris asked the unicorn in front of her. Ki’li looked positively ill and was very uncomfortable. Chris even imagined that she could see a blush on her face, but that was impossible, wasn’t it?

“You are correct. We used the mind gift to ‘push’ you into helping us. Please understand, we can only strengthen ideas that are already there, we cannot force you into doing something you wouldn’t.”

Chris looked at her friend with sad eyes. She couldn’t believe that they’d been manipulated like this! The feelings rolled around in her mind, and she let them, almost attacking Ki’li with them at the same time. She discovered that by focussing on the unicorn mare, she could focus her thoughts straight into her mind. To her surprise, Ki’li continued to stand there, calmly accepting her barrage of feelings, not even flinching. The mare’s head was down, her tail flat against her quarters. She looked positively dejected.

Then a large tear formed at the corner of the mare’s right eye. It rolled down the cheek slowly. Chris watched this phenomenon, transfixed. She knew that horses could not cry in the human sense. But this was an Equine, a unicorn. She already knew that they could smile. Was it possible?

“Please understand our reasoning,” Ki’li continued, after a while. “We needed to get out of that compound before the Sh’rin reached us. We were taken somewhat by surprise by what happened, we had not realised your government would act so fast. We had planned to let you in on the reasons and secrets before we escaped with you, so you and Hamlet would be prepared.” The mare sighed, shifted legs a little and then continued. “We did not want to shock you, as there was a possibility you would balk even with our pushing. But we had no choice. When we sensed the Sh’rin on the planet, we knew we had to get out fast, or likely die. You see, the Sh’rin have technology that can get through our light-bending, thereby making us visible. Our only hope for survival was getting out before they were organised enough to have that technology up and running. We are the last hope for this planet, and for our race as well as yours. Somehow, we must fight together to beat off the Sh’rin before they destroy this planet even more than the humans have managed.”

Ki’li shifted again, and lowered her head even further. “I’m sorry if we violated your trust. We felt, at the time, that we had no choice. But we truly cannot make you do anything against your will. We can only strengthen ideas that are already there.”

Chris sighed. She realised that she had no real complaint. It was true that she probably would have felt compelled to help, had she known the full reason. She gave Ki’li a hug, stroking the silky mane. “I realise that you did what you thought you had to do. I’m sorry I blamed you, but it did come as a bit of a shock. I’m still not really sure how I feel about it, but I do understand, and I don’t blame you.”

Ki’li locked her knees quickly as she sighed with relief. They could not afford to argue, not now. Suddenly she was struck by a thought, and as they were so closely linked, Chris was struck by the same one almost simultaneously. They looked at each other.

“What do we tell Hamlet?”
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
De-lurking again! Hope everyone remembers the storyline, I know it's been a while!, - Monday, January 06, 2003 at 05:50:12 (PST)

Off topic, but on topic:

Again thanks for the help. I'm going to take on Dect. David Friedman, and shall try to do my best. I have a story in my head and plan to work it out a bit before I post it.

Let's just say that David and his "friend" are moving to London, she lives there...where she writes. He's going to make a fresh go of it, or so she (That would be Elizabeth or "me") hopes, we shall see what unfolds.

In case anyone wanted to know about the real me, My name is Courtney I live in the US and I am in my junior year of college for criminal justice, and always wanted to write. Of course have been a Rickman fan since Die Hard.=)
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
Here goes....something!!, - Sunday, January 05, 2003 at 20:59:01 (PST)

FoF Set:

Cindie slipped out of her jacket and reached to hang it on the hook. So far, so good. She’d managed to enter the building without anyone but the security guard seeing her. Ivan, fortunately, was not charged with noting the times of arrivals and departures, simply ensuring no unauthorized persons entered the premises, so there were no worries there. While she knew he wasn’t as bland as he looked she also knew she could count on him not to do more than was strictly required of him. Her trip to her little office had been more harrowing than she’d expected. It wasn’t like she’d never run late before - it was just that the circumstances this time seemed so… not sordid, that wasn’t fair. Just rather more complicated than she’d care to explain. I overslept because Mistral didn’t drop me off at my flat until almost dawn. No. Explanations would not be a good thing this morning.

She placed the jacket on the hook and paused for a moment as she wondered how she would be feeling right now if things had progressed differently last night. If she’d been bolder, more woman than she had been, and had asked him to fulfill that Monty… Who knows what might have developed there in that dimly lit room. That dimly lit room in the back of a bar. No, she had been right, that wasn’t the place to allow the physical a place in their relationship. Still, his body. . .

She shook herself and let her hands drop to her sides. Muttering under her breath, “Thank goodness the Director didn’t see me come in. I wonder where he is. . .”

“Maybe he’s standing right behind you.”

Wheeling around she came face to face with him. “Boss. Sir. Um, good morning?”

She waited for the scolding, the barrage, the inevitable questions. Why was she late, why hadn’t she phoned in, where had she been when he’d tried to call her house… He wouldn’t have called her, would he?

But no barrage came, no questions, no censure. Just a look. A look that came perilously close to sorrowful and reproachful. A look that made her want to drop to her knees and beg his forgiveness. For …what? She hadn’t done anything! Not really. There was more to his expression, he looked …worried. Worried about her.

Finally he spoke. In a carefully neutral tone he said, “I’m glad to see you are safe. When you and Mistral did not arrive on time this morning I thought perhaps you had met with some sort of mishap last night.” His emphasis on the word mishap was so fraught with meaning it made her ache.

“No, not all. I’m sorry if you were concerned. I didn’t know Mistral wasn’t in yet. Shall I call him and make sure nothing is amiss?” Her attempt at polite interest didn’t even fool herself let alone the Director.

The Director did not deign to respond to that question. The silence stretched between them until, unable to bear it for another moment, Cindie blurted, “I’m sorry. I should have called in. We stopped for a drink before he dropped me at home and I ended up oversleeping.” There, not the whole story but enough to let him know part of what was probably concerning him. As an afterthought she added, “Mary Anne’s porbeagle looks great behind the Downtime’s bar.”

“He took you to …the Downtime?” The Director paled.

“Yes. Interesting place.” Good grief, she’d told him much more than she really needed to in order to ease his mind. Why did the man look like he’d just been punched in the stomach?

Cindie
Barbara, you're killin' us here!, - Sunday, January 05, 2003 at 11:34:31 (PST)

The next morning…

He paced into the pub, the Downtime Bar, and scanned around its surrounding perimeters. It was early, the sun only just beginning to unfurl from behind the massive peaks shading it, and hardly anyone filled the room. There was, he noticed, in the corner, a man adorned in complete black from head to toe, knocked out on a nearby couch, a bottle of something called butterbeer in his hand. But besides the odd man, he liked it this way. The less people, the less chance of being caught in a ruckus. Course, you might be confused now by what I mean in *ruckus,* but you’ll just have to read on for that one.

He sauntered over to the counter-top, drumming fingers in an impatient manner. Clikety click, clikety click… A pair from one of the opposing tables glanced upwards at him, shrugged with no great concern, and went back into their conversation, deeper than before. Hanging above, on a plaque, was a gargantuan shark, with words inscribed in gold underneath reading, "With thanks to Mrs. Brandon, 2002." He smiled at it, a clever grin, flashing a row of crooked, yellowish-gray teeth. Who would know it was that same, spiteful grin that he wore when dropping the poison into Diane’s cup in her very home? Who would believe that it was that same, malicious smirk that had been as wide as an elephant when he had pierced a hole in the side of her floating tube? Who could possibly think that it was he, laughing, when he had snuck into the bottoms of the yacht and delayed it from being able to pursue after the distraught, helpless Diane in the middle of the ocean?

But that wry smile instantaneously melted into a frown. All those times, and she had escaped his clutches. Every single one of them. The poison hadn’t been permanent, the yacht had eventually been repaired, and now Diane was off in some hospital. The whereabouts of this infirmary, he did not know, but intended to find out, and as quickly as possible.

"Damn. Where’s bloody Sinclair when you need him?"

It was the black-robed man, and robed indeed he was. His swirling ebony cloak twisted around him like a vine while a massive head of greasy hair dangled at the sides, its color matching the clothes he was in. He looked a bit out of it, however, and you can only suppose that he was experiencing a slight hangover from the previous nights imbibing. His eyes, a dark hazel, were only open half-way, giving him a petty drowsy look.

"Excuse me?" Lucas raised a bronze eyebrow, suspicious of this character.

The man stared at Lucas for a moment, squinting, as if to see clearer. He swaggered when trying to force himself onto a stool.

"I asked…I asked where the bartender was…"

"Well I know that." The black man snorted, but felt like replying Then WHY were you asking me?!?

Neither men said anything and lapsed into silence. Lucas gave a cough and pardoned himself from the black-haired man only to see that he was glaring at the wall, eyes transfixed on nothing, but mind whirling inside, tiny gadgets and gears tumbling over one another again and again and again… He looked as if in a daze, hypnotized by his own enduring concentration and line of thinking.

There comes a moment in life where something that never had bothered you before suddenly leaps out of its shadows and peeves your trace of thoughts. Lucas was a man who relished darkness, hid isolated, and enjoyed the company of one. But now, as he perched there upon his stool, he felt clumsy, almost out of place. He looked to man aside him, opened his mouth, then shut it. He was hungry for conversation. Not just any conversation, mind you, but a talk that would unleash his powers to another so strongly that anyone would feel deprived of energy to go on living and bow down to his wishes… to obey, to hear out his commands… And he was good at this, too. And like a magnet, Lucas fell pulled to this man, a certain speciality that he couldn’t lay his finger on precisely. A tool, this man might be, perhaps? An assassinate? A clever, scheming, useful accomplice? Maybe. He’d have to see. Only time will tell…

He sat up straighter and flicked a strand of honey hair from his eyes. The bartender was still not to be found, and Lucas decided at last to play the hand that had been so graciously dealt to him. He would start small, little and then work his way from there…

"Perhaps you work for a… mortuary?" Lucas did not look the man in the eyes, rather to the ceiling. The man, on the other hand, glowed red in the cheeks with this insult. He wanted to stand up and claim that he was Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… but it would blow his cover, his *disguise* for pretending to be a filthy Muggle… Blah. He hated it. But it would have to do… for now.

"I know not what you are talking about-" Lucas cut him off. "Or are you mourning the *passing by* of a loved one? Oh, death indeed is an intricate thing… as complicating as life itself, I’d say." There was a gleam in his eye, a sharpness that Snape did not like.

"You’re mad is what I say."

"Mad?" Lucas pretended to cough again, this time to hide a hint of laughter. "Mad, no, certainly not. But determined… yes."

Snape kept his mouth closed. He was not stupid enough to play these little Muggle games of guessing and choosing. He sat there, listening, but only half-heatedly. If the man wanted to tell him something of importance then he’d do himself good, save himself also the trouble, and spit it out already.

Lucas waited for a response but received none. The fish was not going for the lure. Another corner, another try. He’d weasel in somehow… he always did.

"What DO you do then?" he asked, a sneer arising upon his lips of pale pink. Snape narrowed his eyes. His hand was at his side at the ready in any case of needing his wand. If this man gave him just one good reason to curse him he would before you can say "quidditch."

"Chemistry…" he answered with a slight drawl and a look of pure boredom. How droll Muggles could be… them and their silly little lives… the blind leading the blind, he thought of it as… None of THEM would ever be able to experience the exact art and subtle science of potion making, and the farthest that so called *magicians* got to magic was waving a black stick with a white cap on the end foolishly over their heads.

"Chemistry… a very delicate profession, no?" Snape’s face was hard to read- too pale and blank to show any action or response. It was almost as ludicrous as talking to a wall. "Dull, if you ask me. Pouring one bottle into another bottle and trying not to blow up your lab… and what do you ever succeed in? Nothing!" He gave a course laugh, that is, if you want to call it a laugh. It was more like a chortle that growled in the linings of his throat.

Snape’s eyes flashed red. How DARE HE!!! But, as one who teaches a classroom can usually effectively master, he need not to bring his voice very audible for Lucas to hear, catch, comprehend, and be astonished at the tone and words inclined. "Then you must have a very little mind as not to see that something as simple as "pouring one bottle into another" can be a masterpiece all of its own… greater than an Eiffel Tower… more inspiring than the Mona Lisa… grander than the Great Pyramid… All in one… tiny… bottle…" He breathed, his accent nothing more than a whisper, and Lucas sat back, appalled.

Lucas felt that he was losing his touch. This chemistry man, whoever he was, had certainly been trained to obtain the attention of others. Now, if only he could do the same… but it was not becoming an easy task…

"Well, have you ever saved someone’s life?" It was his last chance, his last draw into the deck. If he did not pull the ace then the entire conversation would be for naught.

Snape blinked and thought. Saved someone’s life? Yes of course he had… he’d created many potions that had cured the likings of many… NOT that he’d been thanked for it… "Why ask me such as question as that?"

Lucas could almost not hide his beam. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to dab his eyes. "I know a girl, a woman, who is very dear to me." He paused for dramatics. Snape was hooked. He grinned wickedly behind the cloth. "I have known her since High School… and we were going to be… engaged."

"Go on…" grumbled Severus.

"But now she’s deathly ill in the hospital! The doctor called and said there was nothing that he could do… to just…" he paused for a fake choke, "to just… pull the plug." A wail. Even the couple in the corner looked a bit misty-eyed, their attention grasped as well. "But I researched and I found a… a…" Lucas sat there, stumped, and then continued, "a medicine drink that could possibly save her life." He drew in a deep breath. "But it’s VERY complicated… I’d hand it over to the doctors but…" he trailed off. Lucas looked up into Snape’s face, eyes round as a lollipop. "Could you?"

"Could I what?" But Snape knew perfectly well what the man was going to ask.

"Could you please make the medicine? I’d be… be… eternally grateful!" He blew his nose to hide a snort.

Snape frowned. He barely knew his man and already he was asking him to concoct some sort of potion. This man could be anybody. He could be Voldemort or one of his Death Eaters in disguise, just trying to tear him down or find a weakness. But then, he reminded himself, if it had been THEM, his scar would be burning like a frenzy fire. The couple was now hugging each other and sobbing into ones arms. He rolled his eyes. The story, to him, seemed a bit far-fetched, almost ludicrous. So that’s why, hours later when hovering over his bubbling cauldron, he wondered why at that moment in time, WHY he had mumbled, "Yes."

Lucas reached into his pocket. He had won. He had won and no one would even know it was him. The chemistry teacher was in his web, a struggling fly that had given up. When his hand came back from the pocket he revealed a crunched up ball of notebook paper- the instructions to his medicine. He placed it into Severus’s own hand, watching him close it tight and then fall into his own pocket. "And who am I being so obliged to?" "Professor Snape, Severus Snape." "Well, Professor Snake, I wish you and my sweetie all luck imaginable." Snape just nodded at him, Lucas forgetting the bar and heading for the door, ready to make his escape. But before he departed, Severus’s icy voice rang out once more.

"What is the name of the lady?"

"Diane, professor. Ms. Diane Ferra."

Diane <It will be changing today. Haha.>
I try... *sigh* *grin*, - Sunday, January 05, 2003 at 11:24:29 (PST)

Barbara's Flat
Morning of Day Eight of the Investigation

She woke with the same thought that had sent her to sleep.

He loves me.

Her friend. Likely her best friend. It had helped to heal her, trying to heal him. It had been working, too. She could trust Phil, which meant she could trust the other men. At least the ones who were already paired off. The ones who were safe. Brandon, with his pure chivalry. Mistral, so warm-hearted despite his reputation. Dane, with his wicked dry humour. Ed and his genial buffoonery. Because Phil was safe and she could trust him, she could trust them. Then he had to upset it all by falling in love with her.

She snorted, staring up at the ceiling. Falling in love with me, indeed. As if she were the heroine of those cheap softbound luvvies she'd read as a starry-eyed teenager. Yes, she and Phil were supposed to grow old together, but not that way. They were supposed to rent flats next to each other and dodder down the stairs to the tearoom and raise querlous voices at each other, accusing the other of being the bloody barmy one of the pair. Such an... easy ...relationship. Friendship. Companionship. Nothing too strenuous. Nothing like love.

Love was exhausting. Terrifying. There was really no point in it, she decided. For what did you end up with, with love? Your heart in your throat half the time and your mouth filled with ashes the rest of it. No, love was best left to the young. She was too old, too weary, too ... knowing. You had to be blind, for love, and she didn't have enough naivete left for blindness.

With that decided, she rolled out of bed. Staring at her own haggard face in the mirror, she saw her lip curl up. Phil thought he was in love with this face? She snorted. For an asthete, Phil had rotten taste in women.

*******************

"Well, don't we look like a little ray of sunshine this morning?"

Sandy.

Barbara grunted at the writer and turned her attention back to her coffee. Fill the moment, she thought. Make the moment so big, it's all that exists. Make it a now. A now. A now...

"Are you okay?" Sandy's eyes narrowed.

"Fine," Barbara replied. "Just tired."

Sandy grinned. "So I heard."

Barbara frowned up at her. "Heard what?" she asked, her voice rough.

Sandy propped herself on the computer monitor and grinned again. "Heard there were revelations all around, last night."

"What are you talking about?" Barbara heard herself snap.

"My, aren't we touchy today?" Sandy shot back, eyebrows rising. "Couldn't get Phil to kiss you 'cause he'd been swimming in scotch all day?" she asked, a wicked tilt to her smile.

"Phil and I won't be kissing, so it's hardly a problem."

"Uh-huh," the writer said. "Suuurrrreee."

Barbara felt a sigh escape her. "As much as it may pain you to hear it, Sandra, the prescence of someone else's infatuation does not turn life into a screenplay romance, happy endings, swelling violins and all. Romance is not a civil right. Love," here she paused as the humour ran out of the writer's face, "isn't a hobby I can afford." She laid her hand on the mouse, opened the window on her monitor, and turned her eyes firmly to it. She felt, rather than saw, Sandy lift herself from the monitor and leave her office, closing the door behind her with a soft, emphatic thud.

She'd meant every word of it, that was the devil's portion. Her own words rang in her ears. Love isn't a hobby I can afford. Somewhere, deep inside, that starry-eyed teenage girl inexplicably sought to live. She sighed, unconsciously. Perhaps now had put paid to the stupid creature at last.

But it wouldn't. She knew. That starry-eyed fool was where all her best work came from. A brief fragment of song floated through her head: Every act of creation is an act of hope. (homage) But hope was... exhausting. As much as love. She didn't have any to spare, to waste on love.

Or hope.

But, oh, it hurt. She resolutely turned her mind to designing the sets Stage 6 needed for the Interrogator's defense. She was in the mood to do ... bleak. Her mouth flattened into a thin, grim line as she worked.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
The lyrics are from Acts of Creation by Cat Faber. See the complete text at http://www.echoschildren.org/CDlyrics/ACTSOFCREATION.HTML or click on my name to link, - Sunday, January 05, 2003 at 01:13:48 (PST)

Off Topic:

Diane, I have to agree, re: Hugh Grant. It was only after I saw An Awfully Big Adventure that I realized Hughie-lad could actually act.... In all his other work, he's just playing a persona, the fluttering-eyelid, half-daft, genius/git/charmer.

Just my opinion. YMMV.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Sunday, January 05, 2003 at 00:05:20 (PST)

Dear Courtney,

We do try and make our characters have some of the characteristics and *charm* as from whatever production they came from, but this is Flights of Fancy- there is no direct script, no teacher telling you to write it in a certain form, and no Director (well maybe one ;) yelling out "Action!" and "Cut!" For example: Alexander of Galaxy Quest is a former Shakespearean actor while now Sandy, who uses him, has good ole Alex as a professor wandering around in Egypt! So, in answer to your question- yes and no. It's up to you what you want to do with whatever character you choose! ;) I hope this explains it!
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Oh yes, and to the rest of you ladies- NEVER, NEVER EVER WATCH THE HIGHWAY MAN!!! (It's as pathetic as it gets, which is a shock for Hugh Grant.), - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 19:53:16 (PST)

WOW! Thanks for the list of available characters! One last question...for now=) Does my use of said character have to be the way they were portrayed in said films/stage productions? Just wondering....
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
I have to say all of you are VERY helpful..thanks..=), - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 19:37:34 (PST)

Wasn't he also "King Rat" in some sort of Panto, and Joseph in the nativity scene? Spose you could combine the two and make it King Joseph or Joseph Rat if you want a Beatrix Potter sort of story....just watch out for your tail, if you do.
A concerned citizen
- Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 15:02:22 (PST)

These are the film/TV characters available:

John Gissing from The Search for John Gissing
David Weinberg from Dark Harbour
The Metatron from Dogma
David Friedman from Judas Kiss
Rasputin from Rasputin
Mesmer from Mesmer
Obadiah Slope from Barchester Chronicles

These are the stage characters available:

Elyot Chase from Private Lives
Jacques from As You Like It
Marc Antony from Antony and Cleopatra

Please note that Mr. Rickman has also played the following roles in classic plays (scripts in English for these plays can be found at your local library):

Romeo, Paris and Tybalt from Romeo and Juliet
Angelo and Friar Peter from Measure for Measure
Laertes from Hamlet
Ferdinand from The Tempest
Boyet from Love's Labour Lost
Thidias/Alexas from Antony & Cleopatra
Achilles from Troilius & Cressida
The Inquisitor and the Constable of France from Saint Joan
Nijinsky from Nijinsky
Vanya from Uncle Vanya

Barbara the Wallpaperer
or go to the Suzanne's page of AR's resume for a complete listing: http://www.alan-rickman.com/#resume, - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 13:38:51 (PST)

I've checked out the "Whose Who" list of available Rickman characters. My only problem is that I would like to use either David's but I need to see both movies first!! Look out Amazon here I come=)!!
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
Thanks for the welcome!!!, - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 11:34:00 (PST)

The rays of the sun cannot penetrate metal nor fracture glass just as the round orb of life can only spin in one direction from the moment of the cries of birth to the last whispering words of death. Some things we need not to be taught, like how to breathe, or to figure out that the sky is blue and that grass is usually green. (Of course there’s always the exception such as Diane’s lawn which is year round brown.) And there always comes the time in existence when you perform actions that never should have occurred and you express words that were never meant to be spoken of in the first place. Later on, if you are a normal and well, mentally functioning human being, you’d feel guilty and would long to grasp the hands of time and spin them back to replace that awfulness you inserted there. I needn’t go further on with this type of discussion, for now I can see you sitting thither and reading this, nodding, reaching for the tissue box, and recalling one of those very own mistakes you had made. I apologize for causing you such tragedy, but one must lay out the scene before I can continue any further.

For this, ladies and gentlemen, is how Jamie felt after leaving those pale, baby blue hospital doors that evening. Distressed. Disorganized. Dull. Dim-witted. Disturbed. De-functional. Disgraced. (Throw in a few of your own D words if you like.) Jamie had NEVER harmed a creature before in his life, except for the time when he accidentally ran over a squirrel scampering by on the road. But now, he informed himself, while handling his right hand like a piece of shattered glass, now, he was just as low as a criminal, just as filthy as a beggar huddled on the corner of the street. He was as squalid as a thug, as unfit to be living as a murderer. He only took minimal pleasure in acknowledging the fact that unlike these other bags of scorn, he was shameful of what he had done. And, in God’s name, he wished that he had never raised his pinkie in any form of rage or temperament.

Now Diane was alone to die. Alone, clutching those snowy white bed sheets with a face struck full of fear. Alone, that one Joker that had been discarded from the hand of fortune. And it intimidated Jamie to think of her alone, this point in the present so helpless and frail. He had half a mind to run back in there, flubbering apologies a mile a minute- but the other half, the half saying to go on with his after-life, prevailed. He was too torn right now to have the ability to re-claim her trust. He did not have the strength to traipse back into that room, get on his knees, and beg for forgiveness, a forgiveness so immense that a person like Diane certainly would hold a grudge to it for quite some time. It was not within his power to please her now.

But, as he trailed off into the misty, moonlit night he pondered. Maybe, just maybe, another day he could make her smile or give her comfort, a warm (no, make that cold) shoulder to rest her head upon. Maybe another day. Just…maybe.

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Poor Jamie... now, to create some fun for Severus!!! , - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 11:30:34 (PST)

Hey, Barbara, if you are going to run your list again don't forget to add that I now have Snape!!! :) ;) :) ;)
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Had a long flight getting home... but now I'm back in good ole Utah! And Happy New Year everyone!, - Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 11:21:43 (PST)

The Who's Available list is linked from Claudia's Who's Who.
Cindie
Welcome, Courtney., - Friday, January 03, 2003 at 18:27:49 (PST)

Maybe Barbara can run her characters list again so Courtney can see which characters are available?
Magda
- Friday, January 03, 2003 at 18:19:41 (PST)

Absolutely :-) After all, you *are*, in Alex's words, "a mad filker."
Sandy
- Friday, January 03, 2003 at 09:22:54 (PST)

Leave the song parodies to the professionals?
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Am I one of those professionals, Sandy?, - Friday, January 03, 2003 at 08:59:51 (PST)

FoF Conference Room:

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Alexander Dane thundered as he slammed both hands on the table with a loud thud, making everybody jump in their seats.

There was a soft cough from the opposite side of the table. "That line's gone," Sandy said crisply as she gazed at her script. She uncapped her red pen and crossed out the line in a swift, sure motion. She looked up at Alexander and grinned. "Although I must admit, you said it with great enthusiasm, Alex."

Sandy looked down at Oliver, who had stood up on his hind legs at Alexander's outburst. The black miniature poodle was now resting his front paws on Sandy's leg as he gazed curiously around the table with bright eyes. "He says it has to go too!" she added in, pointing her thumb at her pet, who wagged his tail.

"Everybody's a critic!" Alexander muttered as Jack, who was writing side-notes in his own script copy, snickered at the Englishman's scowl, which slowly changed to a wry grin. "It was a little over the top, wasn't it?" he admitted.

"Just a bit," Melanie agreed before dissolving into laughter. "You hit the table so hard, I thought that it was going to split in half!" Roberta and David joined in her laughter and Alexander rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

"It would be a remarkable feat indeed, considering that this table is made of teak," the Director remarked dryly. He leaned forward and turned in Sandy's direction. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yep," Sandy nodded as everybody rose to their feet. "This was very helpful, as usual, everyone. Thanks!"

A gentle rumbling noise echoed in the conference room and Roberta looked down at her stomach. She rolled her eyes and looked down at her watch. "Wow, it's *that* late already?"

Jack lifted his arm to check the time on his own watch and blinked in surprise. "I guess so."

"Never let it be said that I keep you from your lunch then," the Director said as he headed for the door. "Final re-writes by the end of the day today?"

Sandy nodded as the group exited the conference room. "I should have them to the copier well before then."

"Good," the Director responded. He inclined his head and began walking towards the Throne Room set. A gofer ran up to the Director and handed him a note. The Director read it and began walking quickly in the opposite direction.

"Uh oh. Looks like another crisis has turned up," Jack remarked as he slid his arm around Melanie's waist.

"So, what else is new?" Roberta queried. "It's just another one in a series of crises around here."

Everyone nodded in agreement as they headed towards the studio cafeteria, taking a moment to stop at their internal mail boxes. "Oh great!" David exclaimed with a grin as he picked up a small cardboard box from his slot. "My kid sister Brianne sent some pictures from home."

"How old is she?" Alexander asked, frowning as he read the memo stuck in his slot. He rolled his eyes and stuffed it back into the slot with the rest of his internal mail.

"She just turned sixteen last month," David replied. "Got her driver's license a week after her birthday."

"Ah. Another crazy teenaged driver allowed to run amuck on the highways and byways of America," Jack said in a faraway voice as the group walked inside the cafeteria.

"I wouldn't be so quick to criticize her. We've seen the way you drive, Leadfoot," Alexander replied lightly.

"Ouch! That was *harsh*, Alex!" Melanie exclaimed and giggled at the scowl on her fiancé's face, which quickly changed to a sheepish grin as everyone else laughed while they took trays and got in line.

"But all too true," Jack admitted, his dark brown eyes twinkling as he reached out for a chicken salad sandwich. "That's why nobody would let me near the Jeeps when our story line began."

"He's a maniac, maniac, on the road," Roberta managed to sing before she snorted with laughter while everyone else groaned good-naturedly.

"Please leave the song parodies to the professionals," Sandy remarked with a grin as she paid for her lunch and joined the others who were waiting for her and Oliver. They found an unoccupied table and sat down. Oliver then lay down next to Sandy's chair and put on his best, "I'm a mooch, but aren't I a cute mooch?" face in expectation of a treat.

David opened the cardboard box after eating half of his lunch and smiled when he pulled out a piece of paper along with the pictures. He passed the pictures around to everybody while he began reading the note. "So, how are things back home?" Alexander asked curiously as he and Sandy gazed at a picture of two men ice-fishing in the middle of a large pond.

"Well... My cousin Ola finally proposed to his girlfriend after five years of dating. They haven't set a date though," David responded, still reading the letter. "It'll probably be another five years before they *do* set one, knowing Ola," he said with a chuckle.

"He's the King of Procrastination, huh?" Melanie asked, brushing a lock of hair away from her eyes. She looked up at Jack, who smiled at her before they turned their attention to another photograph.

"Yep... He believes that 'slow and steady wins the race'," David nodded in agreement. His eyes lit up as he read the next paragraph in the letter. "And Brianne just got another job that pays more so she can get a better car than what she's driving now."

"That's great, considering how the economy is right now," Sandy commented as she exchanged pictures with Alexander. "What's she doing now?"

"She's a tour guide a couple of afternoons a week and weekends at the SPAM Museum," David replied, not looking up from his reading.

Jack began choking on his water and Melanie pounded on his back enthusiastically. "WHAT?" he managed to sputter as everybody else turned around to gaze at David with wide eyes.

"She's a tour guide at the SPAM Museum. What's so big a deal about that?" David looked up then, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

Alexander blinked several times before he uttered in a dry voice, "There is actually a museum dedicated to all things SPAM in your hometown." He turned to Sandy, who shook with silent laughter then down at Oliver, who looked up at him and wagged his tail.

"Uh huh. It just opened up over the summer. Did you know that there's a display about SPAM at the Smithsonian too?" David added in. He looked down at the letter and continued reading. "Hmm. There's a new interactive display that just opened up at the museum as well..."

Alexander looked around the table, watching as the rest of the group reacted to David's statement. Jack was laughing so hard that tears had formed in his eyes. Melanie had put her head on the table, her body shaking with giggles. Roberta was shaking her head and smiling broadly. Sandy held her hand over her mouth, trying to contain her laughter, but every so often a soft giggle would emerge from the depths of her throat.

Alexander sighed and looked down at Oliver again. The poodle stood up on his hind legs and put his front paws on his leg, still wagging his tail. He reached out and ran his fingers through the soft, curly fur atop the dog's head. "Only in America," he murmured, a smile beginning to tug at his lips.

Sandy
In a case of real life meeting FoF, (or is it the other way around?), I happened to read a "Best and Worst of 2002" round-up of odd news items in my Sunday newspaper and *this* was mentioned..., - Friday, January 03, 2003 at 06:19:04 (PST)

I've been lurking for a while, and have read all the info re: FOF, but still not sure what it's all about ie who "HIM" is etc. How do you get involved in writing anyway?? Someone help=)
Courtney <martic@sage.edu>
Question really...., - Thursday, January 02, 2003 at 16:50:02 (PST)

The Empress’ sitting room:

"Then, we have HIM!"

The Empress frowns a little at Minion and cautions, "Not so fast!" as Mary Anne snaps, "We do, do we? What makes you think I’d want to be part of any ‘we’ that includes you? Majesty-" Mary Anne turns toward The Empress and tries to bring her voice under some sort of control. "Majesty, please-is that what this is all about? I had thought I’d tell what I have to tell at the trial, not to concoct some sort of story in advance with this . . ."

The gesture in Minion’s general direction is enough-enough to uncoil him slightly from his hunched posture in the chair. "This what, Mrs. High-and-Mighty Brandon? I’d think you’d be glad to do anything you could do, to see HIM die, but maybe I’m wrong about that!" More light in those eyes, now, as if someone had wiped fog from a windowpane. "Ever since you saw me, you’ve looked at me like something you’d scrape off if you found it on your shoe. Well, maybe I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. But whatever I’ve done for The Interrogator, at least I’ve never been The Interrogator!"

Mary Anne is out of her seat and several steps across the carpet before the three Imperials close ranks around Minion’s chair and intercept him as he rises, either to meet the onslaught of her fury or to try and run from it.

"Mary Anne!"

Her name, from the lips of The Empress. That halts Mary Anne, though she remains with her eyes fixed on Minion, breathing deeply to calm herself. "Never been HIM, you say? You’ve been HIM, far more than I-because you served HIM willingly, and I never have. And you dare to bring that up to me, when you and your kind were the ones who invented that damned machine? It never would have happened without you; have you thought of that?"

"Have I thought of it?" cries Minion, so wildly that The Imperials shift uneasily, glancing toward The Empress as if wondering whether their charge should be removed. Her Majesty, however, appears perfectly in control of herself and at her quiet signal, the Guardsmen try to gently push Minion back down into his chair-then less gently, for he struggles in their grasp, fighting for this long-deferred opportunity to speak his mind and unburden his heart.

"Have I thought of it? Mrs. Brandon, you said I served HIM willingly. Do you know how lucky you are? A fine lady with love and money and looks? And health, too. Everything! I wonder how you would've done if you’d been in my place!"

There is a pause while Minion catches his breath, and through her tightly-controlled fury, Mary Anne is surprised to observe that there is colour in the man’s face at last-or, to be more precise, in the tip of his nose, which is faintly pink with emotion and exertion. In the moment of silence, Mary Anne glances at The Empress and obeys the silent gesture that commands her to resume her seat.

The silence does not last. "I’ve been sick most of my life, did you know that? Never strong. And no one ever loved me. My parents died when I was too young to remember them. No one else who looked after me took that much trouble with the job. All those years, before . . ." His voice trails off, and everyone can guess what part of the story would come next, if he would dare to tell it. "And you ask me if I’ve thought! Here’s one of the things I’ve thought, Mrs. Brandon. I’ve thought so many times that the worst part of my bad health is that it didn’t kill me when I was still a child. Or that it didn’t kill me when HE . . ."

Minion stops again, shuddering and wrapping himself in his thin arms. "But then, THEY can be so clever that way. Never quite enough to kill me . . . that whole business with the machine, when you had me convinced those orders came from HIM, you see, and I obeyed, just as I’d always done . . . don’t kill him, THEY said, he’s smart enough to keep . . . and so I haven’t died, even when I wished I could."

Mary Anne’s worst anger is not proof against such misery, and though she has no comfort to offer, she tries to turn Minion’s mind from its unbearable reflections. "If you could help come up with something like that machine, you do have talent," she offers, stiffly, awkward and off-balance with the pity she can neither contain nor express. "Far too much to waste it on the likes of THEM."

"But that’s just the point!" Minion has ceased his struggles against The Imperials and allowed himself to be returned to the chair, but now he sits well forward as though he might leap up again at any moment. "When THEY came to me, if I’d known how it would be, of course I would have refused. Or I hope I would. Give me that much credit, at least! But it’s not like there was an angel on one of my shoulders and a devil on the other, whispering in my ears when I accepted THEIR offer; that’s only in children’s stories, Mrs. Brandon."

Mary Anne cannot help thinking that such stories have some truth in them, but before she can reply Minion continues. "And talent, what about it? HE has talents, you know." A slow clenching of those frail fingers that could be crushed by an energetic handshake. "You talk to me about my talents. But The Interrogator has so many of the things I’ve wished for. I’ve been told that I’m clever, but so is HE-and strong, and I’m told that the ladies find HIM good-looking enough. One of them did anyway, enough to marry HIM, and she was a good woman from all I’ve ever been told. Why should HE have love, and not me? HE has lots of things I never had. But it didn’t save HIM, did it?"

MA
Some fireworks of a different sort, to start off the New Year . . ., - Wednesday, January 01, 2003 at 19:19:09 (PST)

I just wanted to take a peek in to wish everyone a Happy New Year! I hope you all had a safe, enjoyable, and happy holiday.
Alice
I probably gained ten pounds...ugh..., - Wednesday, January 01, 2003 at 08:16:36 (PST)

Happy New Year to all--on with the adventures for 2003!

MA
*pop* of champagne cork . . . krshhhhhhh . . ., - Wednesday, January 01, 2003 at 07:46:35 (PST)

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