Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Oh Lee, you are so bad!I mean good! And these two...whew! Thank goodness I wasn't with Professor Snape, the Latin phrases threw me into a fit of giggles!
Joan Pa USA
- Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 20:23:22 (PDT)

Ahrgh gag gasp Noooooooo! Lee do not stop now!
Janine (alas at work without any windex or husband nearby.... sob sniff)
- Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 18:15:43 (PDT)

“Whoops,” she said.
Claudia
Temporarily borrowed unrelated character, just because I can., - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 17:28:24 (PDT)

lee <potionmistress@hotmail.comfooythingie>
To be continued…I don’t know Les, looks bad. Very bad. Thanks Laura, glad you like the story! Anne is the highly able Latin consultant. Thanks Anne!, - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 17:26:03 (PDT)

Lee- I love your story- I check every day to read more! I missed the first few chapters, but I love it all the same. It's so funny- I wrote a similar story last year only Severus' lover was the new Arithmacy mistress, replacing Professor Vector who was attacked by the Whomping Willow! Keep up the good work!!!
Laura <Luna6287@aol.com>
"Alright- put the knives away- I'll get the goddamn birdie!" -Dark Harbor, - Thursday, July 31, 2003 at 14:16:23 (PDT)

Thank you Cindie, I really appreciate that. Pam is going to pass the Windex to you after she gets it from Janine then you please pass it to me! CdC…I am cracking up because I know exactly what you are referring to having bunnies amongst my menagerie. No worries mate, no bunny mirrors here. Snape has an enchanted version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which plays for a very long time, if you know what I mean. Try playing if to calm Hans in the spare room. lol
lee
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 20:52:48 (PDT)

Lee: How can I put this delicately? I've raised rabbits. I do hope that not everything about Snape and Gwenevere's unconnubial bliss mirrors bunny love. Think of music: Andante vs. Allegro.
Carolyn, dear Carolyn
Whoa Hoss!, - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 18:54:48 (PDT)

Hi Lee, I thought my glasses were smudged before I read your story! They were fogging up by the time I finished! It is excellent and I can just imagine wheee it is going! Keep up the good work. It was a fun read after Blueberry picking today with my son. Go into Yahoo if you want to read a cute story and punch in the words baking with Snape--how he is stuck baking christmas cookies--HA HA-I believe it was under fanfiction and written by someone named Joanne. Have a nice evening, hope the greyhound is still doing well. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 18:33:32 (PDT)

lee -- that was particularly lovely.
Cindie
Last post tonight, I promise. , - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 17:44:34 (PDT)

lee
Thanks Janine, be sure to have the Windex handy for tomorrow! Oh boy…:), - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 17:17:47 (PDT)

Oh, and thanks to Therese for the very pink feathered pen.
Cindie
Hoping she has a safe and frog-filled trip. , - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 16:33:58 (PDT)

FoF, Cindie's cube:

“What in heaven’s name is that?” The voice of FoF’s supreme being in residence cut off whatever inspiration had managed to flow from Cindie’s brain to pen to paper.

“What’s what?” She eyed her boss over a spray of pink plumage.

“That thing with which you are writing.” He gestured towards the thing in question.

“Since, as you noted, I’m writing with it, you ought to be able to guess it’s a pen.” Half of her mind was grasping for the train of thought she’d held just a second before. It had left the station without her.

“It looks like a fuchsia feather duster.”

“It was a gift. I happen to like it.” She placed the pen on top of the pad resting on her desk top. Maybe she could catch up with the train later.

“I ought to have saved on the computer budget and simply bought more pens and paper.”

“Sometimes the simple things are still the best. But I use the computer too.” She quietly assessed her boss. He looked visibly calmer now that the ordeals attendant with the thefts and his attempted kidnapping were behind them. The laugh lines about his eyes were eased and his mouth was relaxed and settled into its natural almost smiling curves. Cindie was glad to have all that behind them as well, however, even though she’d never thought Trudchen was of much use, now her work load as assistant was increased although not doubled. . (Cindie used to try to squelch this uncharitable assessment as the woman seemed to have family issues but now that the truth was out she felt more rather than less uncharity was called for.) The Director still lingered at her door and so she enquired, “What did you need, boss?”

The near smile flickered to life. “I want you to go ahead and have Therese reinstated to full pay. This little lesson I’ve had to teach her seems to have done her some good. Her productivity is back up and these last scenes have been quite satisfactory.” It was clear he felt that his firm stance had been solely responsible for Therese’s newfound prolific-ness.

Cindie tried very, very hard not to look guilty. “Yes, boss. I will make sure that Accounting receives all the paperwork they’ll need.” Perhaps a bit to brightly she said, “That last scene with she and Dev was killer. I’m a sucker for all that lovely Irish.”

“I’m rather partial to the Gaelic languages myself.”

“Yes, they are especially effective for making up scenes.”

The Director gave her a quizzical version of his half smile but did not comment further before leaving her to her scattered thoughts.

Cindie
MA - thank you for returning a gently used Mistral
Clods, what am I on? Not a thing, just high on your posts... What is behind that wall???, - Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 16:31:32 (PDT)

Dear Alan Rickman I think you are the best actor there is and i just fell in love with you when i found out that you wrernt the person who wasnt trying to kill harry and that you werent after the stone and you play such a good potion master somtimes i just wish i was @ hogwarts and that i was in slytherin and that i would be on your side about gryffindore
leslie
- Wednesday, July 30, 2003 at 15:56:30 (PDT)

Deleted because I thought thats what you asked me to do, as it mistakenly posted here instead of Downtime. I didn't understand the post, so no, it wasn't offensive!
Claudia
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 19:06:27 (PDT)

Dear Claudia, Please say you accidentally deleted Babbling Brooke's posts? It was meant for the Downtime Bar, thought I could be "cute" and pretend it was really for FoF. If I did something wrong, would you kindly point it out, I didn't think my humor was that bad, I'm confused. No malice intended. Thanks.
Babbling Brooke
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 19:00:38 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

As she fills the sink, Mary Anne, can hear a faint clicking from the front room, and she grins, thinking, Mistral’s found the remote. What is about men and those things? The voices from the television, chattering high or sinking low as he switches channels . . .

The telephone rings.

Mary Anne tenses, restraining the impulse to drop everything and make a mad dash, leave the porcelain pot and cups to their fate. But if she lets go, something delicate will be smashed. “Mistral, could you get the phone, please? Don’t let the machine pick it up!”

There is a sound of assent and the murmur of conversation as she hurries to settle the cups and wipe her slippery hands. Flinging the dishtowel aside, Mary Anne speeds for the front room . . .

Just in time to see Mistral set the receiver back in its cradle.

“Who was it?” Breathlessly.

“Brandon. Apparently Therese and Dev have had a . . .” Tactful pause. “ . . . disagreement. Therese left the flat and Dev has been calling about, trying to find what’s become of her. Brandon said he would call here to spare Dev a call, but I told him that she was not here.”

Slowly, Mary Anne makes her way to the couch and sinks down onto one of the arms. The television blats on.

“Unless she was here earlier? I would have asked you, but he rang off before . . .”

Mary Anne stares at the television. Picking up the remote from where Mistral had left it on the sofa, she presses button after button.

“Yes, our AMAZING new product will leave your teeth UNBELIEVABLY WHITE OVERNIGHT! Or DOUBLE your money back--!”

Click.

“—casting search for its production of Cyrano de Bergerac, the proceeds of which will be donated--”

Click.

“Have you tried our new Herbal Viagra—“

Click.

”Enlarge your—“

Hasty click.

"Please, please do not ask this of me! I can't bear it!”

Mary Anne’s hand freezes, locked tight on the remote.

”If you have won, can you not relent toward me, at least a little? Do not shame me like this! . . . Be generous in victory! Please, do not force me to this . . . please, I . . ."

Her voice drops. A whisper. Mary Anne can feel her own lips move in time with the woman on the screen.

"I beg you--"

"For . . . yourself, Mary Anne?"

"Yes. For . . . myself."

“Mary Anne.”

She dares not look. Transfixed by a dread that makes her want to, of all things, giggle at the silliness of it, she dares not look toward . . . Mistral? Will it be Mistral? That deep voice, behind her, but there, just there in front of her . . .

“Mary Anne, look at me.”

Impossible not to look. That is a flat fact. She turns.

Mistral stands with one hand still lightly resting on the telephone. His eyes on her . . . searching, but not threatening. Filled with concern. “You don’t look at all well. Is there . . . anything I can do?”

Oh, Mistral, if only you knew! Briefly, she thinks on the previous night, how she had tried to sleep after Brandon’s abrupt exit—but sleep had eluded her as she had lain burning in the darkness, yes, burning in the night that had turned so chill, unable to find one cool spot in her tangled bedsheets, finally rising to shove open a window. Then, she had slept—only to awaken a couple of hours later, now shaking with cold, to gather all the discarded bedclothes and curl herself into the mound of them. I shall catch pneumonia, that’s what I shall catch. (homage) She had dropped asleep again, restless, and oh, Lord, the dreams . . .

He is waiting.

“I’ll be fine, Mistral.”

A smile. “You are definitely not fine, now. But if you say you will be fine, I’ll content myself. Because I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Mary Anne is horrified as tears pearl in her eyes without the least warning and stream down her face. No sobbing. Just the slow fall of droplets. All the strains the previous night, this day . . . that long-ago exchange on the television, her overwrought nerves, and now this tender concern and affection . . . it has all turned some visceral key. “Mistral . . . you’re making me cry so dreadfully . . . “(And again, homage)

Helplessly, she waits as he advances toward her with that peculiar ground-eating stride. It does not appear to be fast, yet covers distance in a heartbeat, and whatever it is he means to do, she cannot hope to predict or prevent it.

She half-expects that he might take her in his arms . . . but no, his hands settle gently on her shoulders as he inspects her, still at arm’s length, and that warm, firm pressure leaves her in no doubt of his earnest desire and intention to help her.

“Mary Anne, I don’t think I am the one who has made you cry. Who is it? Would you like to tell me? If you do, I shall confront the villain and tear him limb from limb.”

“Shall I write another hero scene for you, then?” She is smiling now; Mistral in his gallant mood is irresistible.

“Seriously. Can I help? Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Mary Anne steps back a little, dragging one arm across her eyes. “I appreciate it, really, I do. But I just can’t tell you, even though I know you’d never say a word. Someone’s . . . character is involved, and—“

“Character?” He frowns. “Which of our . . . ah, I understand. By ‘character’ you mean someone’s good name and reputation. Very well.” He glances down at his watch. “If you’re certain there’s nothing I can do, then I’m not doing you any favours by keeping you up so late. You need to rest—and if you’ll take my advice, I’d suggest something a little stronger than chocolate for a nightcap.”

“I’ll see you out.” A sidelong glance at the kitchen as she follows Mistral to the front door. Maybe a little tot of that brandy . . . or maybe not. Wonder how it would agree with all that hot chocolate . . .

Mistral pauses, framed in the open door, then leans in to give her one quick peck on the cheek, there and gone. “If you’re certain you’ll be all right, then . . .”

“Some sleep and I should be as good as new.” Should be . . .

“Then I will see you on the set in the morning.”

“You will. Unless I’ve turned invisible by then.”

“Good night, Mary Anne.”

“Good night, Mistral.”

MA--Yes, I've been reminiscing a lot about Private Lives lately.
Okay, Cindie, Mistral is now *out* of MA's flat . . . ;-), - Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 18:56:41 (PDT)

Whoops posts removed, and Itallics fixed, while I'm here. ;)
Claudia
Deputy DOC, - Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 18:40:42 (PDT)

The Doctor gave her a withering look. “Watch,” he said, and opened the door to his right, just slightly, and beckoned her to look through the gap.
Claudia
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 17:44:25 (PDT)

It is cold outside (Melbourne winter) yet the latest Snape story is steaming up my glasses ..thanks Lee
Janine
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 15:55:46 (PDT)

Gwenevere’s dream was being played out in false reality and there was no way to stop it. Simultaneously, and without a word, they grabbed their robes and bolted through the door in route to the second floor...
lee
- Tuesday, July 29, 2003 at 10:16:01 (PDT)

er...Shouldn’t the Metatron be surfacing for air by now?
justaskingthatsall
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 21:35:19 (PDT)

MH, Hmmm…animal testing. Well read tomorrow and find out if the rats receive benefits far beyond that which their little minds can fathom. I guarantee they won’t mind a bit...:D
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 19:46:47 (PDT)

Well, I know how to push all his right buttons.

Cindie! What are you on today!
Claudia
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 19:06:30 (PDT)

FOUL! ANIMAL TESTING? Quick! Rethink, lee!
Merciful Heaven
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 18:16:58 (PDT)

Thank you Pam, and "Red Alert" the greyhound is doing fabulously. He dreams of racing I think. LOL If there is a remote thingie that controls any of AR's characters, may I please have a turn with it as well? Privately of course.
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 17:19:18 (PDT)

The class was now ready to test their potions.
lee
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 17:03:40 (PDT)

Don't do that, Claudia! We can all take turns playing with the remote thingie that controls Ed's body.
Cindie
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 16:51:59 (PDT)

Lee, What a great chapter for Monday you wrote.. Hope all is going well with your greyhound. Isnt it great to have a pet around? Have fun-Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 16:05:24 (PDT)

Drat! I'll have to change the ending now ;P
Claudia
- Monday, July 28, 2003 at 13:34:44 (PDT)

Clods, Not sure why but I have this vision of them kidnapping Ed and using his brain to run their facility...
Cindie
BtW, don't worry, you're still da woman. , - Monday, July 28, 2003 at 12:36:48 (PDT)

Ed and Claudia

“Why of course, we are having a feast in your honour tonight. Go back to your room. Have a nice long shower, and we will talk about this again this evening.”
Claudia
A bath, a shower, how clean can one man be?, - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 20:00:15 (PDT)

lee
Les and Pam, thank you for the thoughtful words for the story and the hound. *sigh* I really missed having a dog more than I knew. :), - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 19:34:20 (PDT)

Italics problem begins with the Who's Who list.... near the bottom, around Antony and Cleopatra.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
*sigh* I am losing my touch, - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 19:17:12 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

“My impressions of the Gala?” Mary Anne gazes off into space. “Well, the buffet was delicious, but I think some of the canapés had been left out a bit too long . . .”

Watching Mistral from the corner of her eye, Mary Anne sees his grin widen. His hand resting on the back of the sofa—slowly, deliberately, the fingers flatten and spread.

“Mary Anne.”

“All right; all right.” Mock terror. About three-quarters Interrogator. He doesn’t turn it up much higher than that, away from the set. “I have to say that if you’re looking for impressions . . .” No more staring innocently off into the distance, but straight into his eyes, now. “What left the strongest impression on me was a certain disturbance by that big fountain.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

Mary Anne pours herself a second cup of chocolate. “I noticed.”

“Yes, I think just about everyone in the hall noticed . . .”

“Mistral, the kings and queens in Westminster noticed. That creature was screeching loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Creature?”

“Yes, creature. That’s what I said.”

“Did she offend you, Mary Anne?”

Mary Anne squirms a little under that gaze. Makes me feel like a butterfly on a pin, blast him. However, she returns his level stare, refusing to be intimidated—or refusing to show it. “She never said a word to me, but I saw how she acted all evening. Draping herself like a serape over anything male that came near her . . . and you can take that look off your face, because it wasn’t just that. She treated the waiters like dirt, you know. She kept them all running, and nothing they did was good enough for her. Oh, and any of the women who came near her, if she even deigned to look at them, it was the way you’d look at something you thought wasn’t fit to wipe your shoes. Except . . .”

“Yes?”

Mary Anne had been about to say, Except for anyone she thought was pretty enough to be competition, when something in Mistral’s taut expression makes her pause and reconsider. Time, perhaps, to try another approach. “Here’s one for you, Mistral: did she offend you?” An idea, then, a stab in the dark. “Or Cindie?”

Bullseye. Mistral had been absentmindedly smoothing his hand along the back of the sofa; that motion suddenly arrested, he remains in complete stillness for a moment before admitting, “I think perhaps there must have been something with Cindie, but . . .” His hands lift and drop again, the classic pose of bewilderment. Of helplessness.

“How did she end up in the fountain? Too close to the edge?”

“Something like that.”

Mary Anne waits, but no more is forthcoming. Still, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure this out. I wouldn’t be surprised if that harpy got a little help into that fountain . . . no, Cindie’s not the type to do that. Unless . . . maybe if she were really, really angry . . .

Abruptly, Mary Anne gives up her ponderings. Strange, to see that look on Mistral’s face—masterful Mistral, always in charge of every situation, and now? That taut look has returned: a man trying to keep his balance, growing more and more miserably certain that he is about to flail and crash.

Mary Anne looks away, busying herself with the pot of chocolate and the porcelain cups. “Is there anything I can do, Mistral?”

“You have listened. And answered what I asked. I believe that is all that you can do, for now.”

Maybe I could do more if you told me what this is about. But she has known this man long enough to know that secrets cannot be forced from him. He has sought her out as confidante before, but what he has done tonight in coming here is revolutionary for a man who so guards his privacy. Still wondering, Mary Anne reaches for Mistral’s discarded cup. “I’ll take that, if you’re finished with it—“

“Please. And the chocolate was truly excellent.”

Sighing a little, Mary Anne gathers the cups onto their tray and heads for the kitchen.

It is when she is piling the cups into the sink and running hot water that the telephone rings . . .

MA--still wrestling with Mistral. Figuratively, of course, Cindie. ;-)
D.o.C.--We seem to have an italics problem below, but I can't spot where it begins . . ., - Sunday, July 27, 2003 at 16:13:28 (PDT)

Episode One Hundred Seven ~ Phil Allen & Barbara Vanders

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Barbara Torture, part one... (yes, Sandy, this is for you...), - Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 08:17:58 (PDT)

Hello everybody. I write in this guestbook from the Netherlands. I live in Serooskerke, and I am 12 years old. I love this site about Alan Rickman. (Isn't he loveley in the movie robin hood prince of thieves?!?!?!?) Very cool site. Greets of the Netherlands, Hanne.
Hanne <Hoelahanne@msn.com>
Cool Site, - Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 07:42:08 (PDT)

We do borrow each other's characters from time to time (with prior permission). This is how it is that MA is currently wresting with Mistral in her flat. Figuratively speaking.
Cindie
- Saturday, July 26, 2003 at 06:38:19 (PDT)

Who is available/not available to Write a FOF story about?

Compiled by Barbara the Wallpaperer

You may not use another's claimed character in a story Oh dear ther is a little break in the rule {as eyebrows raise in Cindie's direction hem hem - polite cough}
Confused spactator.
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 20:58:18 (PDT)

D'oh!

D.o.C.?
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:54:26 (PDT)

Who is available/not available to Write a FOF story about?

Compiled by Barbara the Wallpaperer

Here is, as far as I can tell, a complete list of characters claimed and mentioned in the entire history of FoF. Let me know if I'm missing someone.

FILMOGRAPHY (a bit trimmed)

Love, Actually (2003)
as HARRY
This character has never been claimed

The Search For John Gissing (2001)
as JOHN GISSING
This character has never been claimed

Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone (2001)
Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets (2002)
as SEVERUS SNAPE
Snape has been claimed by Lee and Jutta

Blow Dry (2001)
as PHIL ALLEN
Phil has been claimed by Barbara

Help, I'm A Fish! (voice) (2000)
as JOE
This character has never been claimed

Play (2000)
as MAN
This character has never been claimed

Dark Harbour (1999)
as DAVID WEINBERG
David W was claimed, but is now available

Galaxy Quest (1999)
as ALEXANDER DANE
Alexander has been claimed by Sandy

Dogma (1999)
as the METATRON
Metatron is claimed by Rhys

Judas Kiss (1998)
as DAVID FREIDMAN
David F has been claimed by Barbara

The Winter Guest (1997)
as the DIRECTOR
The Director is a shared character

Michael Collins (1996)
as EAMON DE VALERA ("Dev")
Eamon has been claimed by Therese

Rasputin (TV) (1996)
as RASPUTIN ("Raz")
Rasputin was claimed, but is now available

Sense And Sensibility (1995)
as COLONEL CHRISTOPHER BRANDON
Brandon has been claimed by Mary Anne

An Awfully Big Adventure (1995)
as PL O'HARA
PL has been claimed by Dana

Mesmer (1994)
as DR MESMER
Mesmer has been mentioned but not claimed

Fallen Angels (TV series, one episode) (1993)
as DWIGHT BILLINGS
Dwight was claimed, but is now available

Bob Roberts (1992)
as LUKAS HART III
Lukas has been claimed by Grace

Closet Land (1991)
as the INTERROGATOR ("HIM")
The Interrogator is a shared character
The actor who plays the Interrogator -- "Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral" -- has been claimed by Cindie.

Close My Eyes (1991)
as SINCLAIR BRYANT
Sinclair has been claimed by Claire

Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves (1991)
as GEORGE, SHERIFF of NOTTINGHAM
George has been claimed by Magda

Truly, Madly, Deeply (1991)
as JAMIE
Jamie is claimed by Diane

Quigley Down Under (1990)
as ELLIOT MARSTON
Elliot is claimed by Alice

The January Man (1989)
as ED
Ed has been claimed by Claudia

Die Hard (1988)
as HANS GRUBER
Hans has been claimed by Renie

The Barchester Chronicles (TV miniseries) (1984)
as OBADIAH SLOPE
Slope has been mentioned but not claimed

Busted (TV) (1982)
as SIMON JACKS
Simon has been claimed by Dana

OTHER (a bit trimmed)

Les Liasions Dangereuses (1985)
as VICOMTE de VALMONT
Valmont is a shared character, though he was claimed earlier.

Private Lives (2002)
as ELYOT CHASE
Elyot has been mentioned but not claimed.

Shakespeare's As You Like It
as JACQUES
Jacques was claimed, but is now available.

Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (2002)
as MARC ANTONY
Antony has been mentioned but not claimed. Shakespeare's Hamlet
as HAMLET
Hamlet has been claimed by Chris.

Check out AR's resume at http://www.alan-rickman.com/ for other characters he has played -- especially his on-stage roles.

Or click on my name to leap there...
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I've added Love, Actually -- and I'm claiming David from Judas Kiss.... Clods, you'll need to update..., - Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:53:24 (PDT)

I think it's the men who are territorial about *us*.

Cindie
Not that we don't share nice if asked. , - Friday, July 25, 2003 at 19:08:22 (PDT)

Hi Christina, and welcome.

You don't have to ask permission, per se, to write here, you need only find yourself a character who is as of yet unclaimed (we're a bit territorial about our men, I must admit), find an idea, and begin. If you read over some of the back pages, there is an updated list stating who is claimed by whom.

For the most part, we're a decent lot, and happy to help out, so if you're unsure of anything, feel free to ask. It really is a lot of fun.

'Wench,' however, might be an unforutnate word choice. There is an accepted PG-13 rating that is enforced by the DoC (Department of Corrections) that has the right and obligation to delete any inappropriate posts.

We look forward to hearing from you, and do make sure to explore some of the guides and chatroom links available from the main page.

Therese
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 12:03:26 (PDT)

If I may, I have a request - may I be a wench too? My name is Cristina and I am a BIG AR fan. I was reading your posts (they are ingenious) and I would love to become part of "The Realm" Other info about me is that I am a teen, I am five foot something or other, and my favourite topic is, of course, AR. My favourite film is HPatCoS. Please consider my request and let me know, Thankyou, Cristina.
Cristina
- Friday, July 25, 2003 at 01:58:10 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace--Therese's guest quarters

There was a startled silence as Therese’s demand registered with the people present, and when no response was forthcoming, she repeated it. “I asked, Dr. McCoy, what can you do to get me strong enough for the trial?”

“You can’t, Therese,” Eamon told her, his voice soft. “This has gone far enough.”

Therese turned toward the tall man seated next to her on the bed, her eyes dark and furious. Without missing a beat she reared back, her hand lashing out and striking him full upon one cheek. “How dare you!” she hissed, her voice raw with emotion. “You have no right to tell me anything at this point, Eamon Devalera, no right at all.”

There was a startled gasp from Dr. McCoy, though it was unclear whether her response was from the fact that Therese still had the strength to pack such a ringing wallop, or her shock at the violence of the action. She moved toward her patient, placing a steadying hand upon her shoulder.

Therese turned to Scout, her face still a stormy mask. “Lt. Sifuentes, if you would be so kind as to remove this man from my accommodations,” she requested, her voice coldly formal.

The lanky lieutenant looked from the petite woman on the bed to the tall Irishman and back again, as if contemplating his words carefully. “I’m sorry, Miss Gellert, I’m afraid I cannot comply with you request, as Mr. Devalera is here in this room on house arrest, and is under orders to remain by The Empress herself.”

Therese’s eyes narrowed, and she scanned the assembled occupants of the quarters, her concern, exhaustion, and frustration all clear upon her face. She started as Dev spoke again. “Lt. Sifuentes,” he paused, his voice soft, “Scout, please, could you take your men and allow me a moment of privacy. Dr. McCoy?”

There was a tense silence in the room as the occupants considered his request. Therese bristled visably, the doctor looked concerned, and Scout appeared torn. Finally he crossed his arms. “Miss Gellert, my men and I will be right outside the door, you need only call. Dr. McCoy?” he asked, extending his arm to show the woman from the room as he crossed the floor.

The moment the door had shut, leaving Eamon and Therese alone, she launched herself at his chest, her fists pounding into him, practically screaming her rage. He let her blows fall unchecked for several long moments, then took her wrists in his hands, and held them into his body. For a brief moment her fury surged, and then she sagged forward, completely spent. He gathered her frail body to his chest, cradled her against him, and soothed her with his voice, . “A ghrá mo chroí, tá brón orm,” (Love of my heart, I am sorry) he murmured into her ear, holding her tightly. “Tá brón orm, mo mhíle grá.” (I am sorry, my thousand loves.)

Therese would have pulled away from him then, had he allowed it, but he held her firmly. “Go hifreann leat,” she spat, “Imigh sa diabhal!” (To hell with you, go to the devil!)

“Eistigi liom, tá brón orm. Tá grá agam duit.” (Listen to me, I’m sorry. I love you.) When she did not respond, he continued, “Tá an ceart agat, an dtuigeann tú? Tá brón orm (You are right, do you understand? I’m sorry.)

As her anger cooled, Eamon’s words began to penetrate her fury, and she looked up at him. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I have one of the more difficult experiences of my life to deal with, so I cannot understand, how could you do this? How could you? The only reason I survived HIM was because I knew I had to get back to you, how could you then do something that would separate us forever? Answer me that, will you? Can you answer that?”

Eamon held her tightly, her scent and presence so dear, and remained silent. She was right, but he’d not realised it until it had been too late. He’d wanted only to assure her safety, and had thought the price was not too dear—now he was only too aware of his error. “Forgive me, Therese, I acted in what I thought was your best interest at the time, but you are correct. Can you forgive me? I swear to you, I’ll not leave your side again.”

She looked up into his dark hazel eyes, saw that he meant what he said, saw the deep sadness for her and the frustration and helplessness that they all felt, and she nodded. She felt his arms squeeze around her as he hugged her tightly, and could no longer hold back the tears. She sobbed into his chest, her hurt, frustration and sense of abandonment still keenly felt. Eamon continued to hold her, rocking her gently as she made up for the many unshed tears her experience had wrought.

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

Hope no one minds the Irish phrases, but as Dev would say: "Tir gan teanga, tir gan anam," or "A country (land) without a language, a country without a soul." Eamon Devalera (the real, not the virtual) was very much pro-Irish language, and rallied to have it taught in all the schools during his time in office, so of course he (er, the virtual, not the real) must have taught it to Therese, right?

Therese
great to see you and Ed, Clods! Uh, Barbara--any chance that a certain detective might give *me* Leonard's phone number??, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 21:57:37 (PDT)

Claudia -- *DALLAS*?! (Giving Claudia my own version of the Paddington Bear stare...)
Cindie, again.
Virtual chocolate being piped your way. , - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 20:57:45 (PDT)

AR would kick asphodel as Simon.
Seconding the recommendation of LMB's books.
Barbara made me read them.

Cindie
I had to find out who she was homaging all the time. , - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 20:54:05 (PDT)

Is there any other section in a book shop? ;) Thanks, I'll throw away my silly Peter Hamilton book, and get reading one of these.
Claudia
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 19:18:43 (PDT)

Lois McMaster Bujold

You'll probably find her, abjectly pigeonholed, in the Science-Fiction/Fantasy section.

Start with Shards of Honor (or get the omnibus edition Cordelia's Honor).

When the SF/F community gives out its "Oscars" (called the "Hugos") for excellence in writing, she's nominated. Every time. She's one more than anyone except Robert Heinlein....

Besides, Lois thinks AR would make a great Simon Illyan.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Personally, I'm holding out for him playing Aral Vorkosigan...., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 19:11:02 (PDT)

Barbara - send me recommendations of where to start with her books please! Are they anything like Harry Harrison's Stainless Steel Rat books? I couldn't see any of her books at the book shop, but its not a very good one. Will have to walk further to find even my favourite author.
Claudia
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 18:29:29 (PDT)

FoF Sets
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation
After the Meeting in Ed's Room

Detective Miles Graff met his partner at the exit door. "'A very dead Director'? That was uncalled for."

Detective Ekaterin Silvert's lip curled.

"You shouldn't have dropped the bomb on the man like that."

Silvert winced, the angry planes of her face softening.

"And you didn't need to target Dane like that, either."

Silvert's face hardened.

"Ekaterin, I don't begrudge Dane at all; why should you?" Graff and Silvert piled into his dingy and battered 1980 Ford; Graff put it in drive and they left the lot.

"Nobody does that to my partner."

"Huh." They drove in silence. Graff's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Ekaterin?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you have Leonard Nimoy's phone number?"

A cool smile played on her lips. "I hated Galaxy Quest ," she said, tapping the backs of her fingernails on the glass of the passenger-side window as she watched the scenery flash by. "I adored Star Trek .

Graff began to laugh.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And so it ends.... the villians have been caught, missing property is returned and all is well at Flights of Fancy.... Thank you for tuning in!, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:42:21 (PDT)

MA has it exactly right.

Some of our homages are very obvious... such as Detective Miles Graff's reference to "Never give up, never surrender." (Galaxy Quest, of course!)

The more subtle homages are from and to my favorite author Lois McMaster Bujold.

Ignore the cover art. Read this woman's books!!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled FoF....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
If Rickmaniacs had a convention, would it be AR-Con (Our-Con)?, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:41:09 (PDT)

To all the inquiring readers: the way we use the term "homage" it simply means you're borrowing and paying tribute to material that is not your own. See also "plagiarism" "stealing" and "hey, wait a minute!" Okay, so maybe it's not quite that bad--taking the material without any aknowledgment would be plagiarism. As it is, it's more like wink-wink nudge-nudge. Hope that helps. 8-)

MA
Still pondering my Mistralian predicament . . ., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:21:02 (PDT)

Thanks lee for the Friday story...I really enjoy reading them every night. Good luck and enjoy your greyhound. They make great pets as my sister in Florida has adopted two of them over the past several years and really loves them both. Have fun and all the best with your new greyhound. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 17:15:43 (PDT)

Some while later:

“There’s nothing on.” Ed holding the remote control before him like a laser gun whose beam didn’t quite reach its target, and pushing buttons repeatedly. “I’m bored.”

Claudia looked up. She was sitting at the dining room table in her small flat, typing away at the keyboard of her new laptop. “Go and be creative, you said. Lack of airtime was affecting your fan mail, you said. Why don’t you take your own advice, and go be creative. I’m trying to keep us in work here.”

“I’m having painters block,” he said. “Oh, look, there’s Minion on TV.” Ed pouted. “See, if you’d written more, that’d be me up there. Now even Minion has more airtime than me.”

“Ed, when have you ever cared about all that? What’s wrong with you? You’ve had some great scenes with half-naked women. Any actor would be thrilled.”

“They were only half naked.”

“You’re arguing too much.”

“No, I’m not.”

Claudia gave him a Paddington Bear stare.

“I’m just bored - it’s something to do.” He grinned, leaning on his arms, and looking over the back of the sofa. “I know, why don’t you read me some of what you’re writing.”

“OK, it’s just an idea, but I thought this would open up all sorts of opportunities.”

“Go on then. Entertain me.”

“The sun streamed in through half open curtains, as Claudia woke to the sound of water running. Half asleep she got out of the comfortable, warm bed, and wandered over towards the bathroom. Someone was in the shower. Someone was humming. She opened the shower door, and Ed turned and grinned at her. Then she suddenly realised that everything that had happened after Mary Anne’s wedding had been a dream. A long and horrible dream. She was at the beach house with Ed, and everything was right with the world. … Well? What do you think?”

“Um,” said Ed, trying to keep a straight face, which turned his smirk into more of a grimace. “Very Dallas.”

“Oh, that was at least 20 years ago. No one these days will remember Dallas.”

“I don’t know, there may be copyright issues.”

“Oh, come on, half the stuff on FOF is blatant plagiarism… You don’t like it do you?”

“Well, I’d rather you finish a story line, than completely erase it like that.”

“OK, perhaps you’re right…” Claudia hit delete. “Bring me chocolate, I have a lot of work to do tonight.”
Claudia
I'm so excited, appearing in the story lots this week. Cindie: look I posted!, - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 16:51:35 (PDT)

lee
Pam, Thanks for your GB message yesterday. This is for you early because I am adopting an ex-racing greyhound tonight, and will be very busy. :), - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 13:01:47 (PDT)

BtW, What, please, does "homage" mean?
Inquiring readers want to know :-D
- Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 10:17:00 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Ed's Room
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation
After the Meeting on the Nottingham Courtyard Set

"You knew?" Claudia asked. "You knew all this time?"

"Of course," Detective Miles Graff said. "If you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door." (homage) "But," he continued, "Mr. Snape brought us this--" and Graff stepped away, revealing a mess of a laptop on the desk behind him. "Your security cameras caught it happening on film. I don't know how it happened, but Mr. Snape assures me it's possible."

It was Claudia's laptop, all right. If the technicolor "Clods" painted on the lid wasn't a good enough clue, the tiny pictures of Ed and the boys ringing the parts of the screen they could still see were a definite sign. But it was wrong. It looked as if someone had been trying to pull it inside-out, but had stopped halfway. The keyboard poked up partway through the inside of the monitor, circuitboards stuck out the sides like hedgehog spines. "What happened to it?" Claudia asked, looking at it.

Snape gave the laptop and Claudia identical sour looks. "It's technology."

Claudia thought about planting him a facer. No, she'd wait until she had real motivation. Then she'd punch him in the chops. "So?"

Snape scowled. "Muggle technology," he said. "It got splinched."

Claudia stared at him. Ed looked at Snape curiously. "Is that a technical term?" Ed asked.

"Yes, it's a technical term!" snapped Snape and turned away, scowling. He strode down the hall, his black robe flapping behind him like wings. Graff followed, closing the door behind him.

Claudia poked at the remains of her laptop with a curious finger. At least it had stopped sparking.

Ed stood, awkwardly, near the doorway. "I wish we'd been able to get your computer back in one piece," he said.

"Why?"

"I'd like to feel we'd saved something from this whole mess," Ed said.

"I thought we had saved something. We uncovered industry espionage, plugged our security leak and foiled a kidnapping. (homage) And we got paid. Overtime, even. What more do you want for a fortnight?" Claudia asked.

"Well, it would have been nice if any of that had been on purpose, instead of by accident," Ed replied. (homage)

"I dunno about you," Claudia purred, as she closed on Ed, "but I got paid on purpose."

Ed grinned and flicked off the lights. A lock clicked into place in the darkness.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
I'll bet you were wondering what happened to that laptop...., - Thursday, July 24, 2003 at 05:33:19 (PDT)

CONGRATULATE ME!!!
Nutter
Great news, everyone! ACC has dubbed me The Fart Person! Isn't that wonderful! I'm just bursting with pride. Or is that cabbage?, - Wednesday, July 23, 2003 at 20:19:21 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

lee
- Wednesday, July 23, 2003 at 16:26:13 (PDT)

Cindie’s flat:

Cindie stood stock still with Dev’s clear hazel gaze focused entirely upon her. Even knowing much of the intensity residing there was due to Therese’s presence rather than herself it was still a daunting prospect. Finally something she’d heard him say in the confusion of his arrival struck her. “What did you say about the phone?”

“Your telephone is out of order.” Dev spoke in a slow placid tone that enunciated every syllable. The Irish lilt was beautiful and only accentuated his natural authority. In this case, however, Cindie used the diversion of the telephone to side step his command. And the issue. Crossing over to where the telephone sat on an end table she saw that the receiver was askew. After nudging it back on to the receiver she lifted it to her ear to satisfy herself that there was a dial tone. When she looked back at Dev his attention had again returned to Therese. She was occupied with the dogs and as he watched her those features which could be schooled into utter impassivity had relaxed into nothing short of adoration and longing. It made Cindie feel like the intruder. By the time he looked back at Cindie who had replaced the receiver with a click the look was suppressed.

“I don’t know what happened. I must have bumped it or something.” Cindie managed a wan smile. “Would you like something to drink? Some Moo shu pork?” At Dev’s narrowed eyes her smile widened to rival one of Gerve Mittens’. She poked at one of the cartons with a chop stick.

“Thank you. No.” There was a hopeful moment where she thought he would have forgotten his directive in favour of leaving with Therese. Instead he repeated the question. “Out with it. Something is distressing you; let me help.”

For all his commanding demeanor, Cindie knew he meant it. Therese too. She could tell either of them of the reasons for her distress and they would sympathize and offer advice and insight. It simply wasn’t possible, however. Knowing how guarded Mistral was it was impossible to think of divulging what had happened. Add to that the fact that Mistral was their friend too, had been for a long time before she had shown up, and that she didn’t even know what the truth was and hadn’t talked about it with him. No, she simply couldn’t begin to explain what troubled her. Her first inclination was to say something flip and to shrug off Dev’s offer. For a moment she simply looked at him. Dev was a tall and sometimes foreboding man but just then his eyes looked to be about the kindest she had ever seen. Instead of saying something trite or dismissive, she walked over to him. On reflex he bent into her as if to better hear what she was going to say.

Cindie kissed his cheek. He responded with a gentle smile.

Cindie then walked over to Therese and gave her friend a hug. She stood back and looked at them. Dev was simply waiting; Therese held Tory’s lead but hadn’t fastened it, clearly prepared to stay if needed. “Out you three. It’s late.” Dev tilted his head and gave her a look. Cindie continued softly, “the person I need to talk to isn’t here right now. Don’t worry.”

Dev and Therese looked at each other for a moment of the sort of silent communication generally reserved for long married couples. After this bit of instant telepathy the goodbyes were exchanged. Declining any offers to help tidy the flat Cindie showed them out, grateful for the offers of help, the hugs and the friendships.

Cindie
Posting is contagious! Trying to run and keep up...
And Barbara...those marching orders were exceeded beyond expectation. Do it again. , - Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 19:29:41 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

“I’ll meet you back here after dinner, so that we can talk.” Severus said, and then set out toward the Great Hall before teaching first years a double potions lab.
lee
- Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 18:38:24 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace--Therese's guest quarters

The camera pans in on a rather grim scene. Therese lies stretched out on the bed, pale, still and unconscious. Dev sits on the edge of the bed next to her, unable to separate himself from her for even the briefest of moments, as if by his touch alone he can lend her strength. Dr. McCoy hovers over her patient, scanners whirring and muttering savagely her discontent at stubborn patients, disregard for medical advice, and the Irish in general, though there is little doubt that her ire in that regard has a specific focus. Scout Sifuentes stands toward the foot of the bed, trying both to stay out of the way and maintain his abject impassivity toward a man he was beginning to consider a friend who not only betrayed him in the fullest manner of the word, but also caused bodily injury to a member of his crew. Two Alliance Rose personal are planted firmly at the thresh hold, and though they control their emotions with the same efficiency they could control their breathing if need be, there is little doubt that both men would find great pleasure in retraining Devalera should he decide to ignore the leniency of Her Majesty's order of house arrest.

After several moments of inactivity Therese suddenly let out a long, low, moan, and throwing her arms above her head, her hands grasp uncertainly at the air, then find the narrow wooden arcs of the headboard, her fingers twining around it reflexively. Grasping the wooden slats as if they were an absolute lifeline, her slender frame twisted and contorted convulsively as she strained upon the bed.

And we are in flashback:

HE had been relentless. From the point when HE had first proven to her that HE was completely in control of her, he had allowed her no quarter. Every interaction provided him some form of dominance, either physical or emotional, and frequently both. He knew his victim, and used every detail to his advantage.

Therese had always been possessed of a fear of height. How HE knew that, she couldn’t fathom, but when he’d drug her up the narrow, winding staircase, so reminiscent of a castle turret, she’d realized he’d discovered this. She lost track of how many rotations they’d made as they climbed the steep incline, but her breath had come in huge gasps by the time he’d quit. Opening a tiny door to one side of the thick wall, he’d pushed her out onto a tiny ledge, causing her to grasp frantically at the cold, brick surface. two leather straps were fastened into the stone, and she laced her wrists through them, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the material.

“Hold tight now,” HE instructed, as he moved a lever beneath the doorway that she’d stepped through, the small ledge recessed into the main wall, leaving her hanging from the two straps. She was suspended in midair over the stone buttress of his lair, unable to see the ground below, and very, very afraid of falling. So absorbed in her struggle to stay secure and not fall, she barely heard the trap door close, and gave little head to the sound of HIS footsteps as they retraced their path down the steps.

All too quickly Therese’s predicament became excruciating. She struggled to wrap her arms more deeply through the straps, but no matter how she attempted to brace her slender frame against the cold surface of the wall, it was only a short time before her weary muscles began to protest. She even tried to link her foot through one of the two straps—anything for relief, but the loops had been made too small to accommodate. She knew it was only a matter of time before she fell, there was no way she could hold on until HE decided to return.

Dr. McCoy moved quickly to her patient’s side as the frail woman’s body thrashed upon the bed. Eamon attempted to pull Therese into his arms, but her fingers tightened, white knuckled as she grasped the bed frame. The flashback shook through her as she fought, struggling and crying out.

She’d fought and struggled for as long as she humanely could, straining herself long past what she’d believed possible, and certainly to the extent of her endurance. She hoped that her neck would break cleanly when she landed, and that she wouldn’t suffer any more than she already had. She’d hoped to spare Eamon this. After all she’d been through, it pained her to finally lose. She didn’t fear her death so much as it angered her. She had so much to live for in Eamon, had promised her that she would survive this, to see him again.

When her last finger slipped through the strap, she felt herself fall backwards, and closed her eyes. The impact was soft, and almost immediate, and Therese, though she was conscious of a brief burst of relief, quickly felt fury overtake any other response. HE had known that she would half kill herself not to fall, and as she lay on the soft, mattress like surface, she wondered if HE had bothered to watch her struggle. Lying back for several moments, she felt the screaming ache of her muscles burn through her limbs, and when HE came to retrieve her once again, she was too weary to throw herself at HIS form, too fatigued to feel the satisfaction of being able to inflict upon this creature some form of retribution for her suffering.

Therese’s form gradually stilled, and when she was once again somewhat calm, Eamon gently peeled her fingers from within the pattern of the headboard, and cradled her on his lap, murmuring to her softly in Irish. He looked up and into the deep blue eyes of the doctor, her concern so readily apparent. “I’ll ask The Empress if I may escort her back to Delaford, if that is your wish,” he said softly.

“I truly think it best.”

Therese, stirring in Eamon’s grasp, opened her eyes and considered the gathering of people. “I’m not leaving,” she announced, her voice soft but determined. She peered up at the doctor, who still hovered over her in concern. “What can you do to get me strong enough for the trial?” she demanded.

Therese
shang-hied by designated driver duty for the boys, MA--sorry about the tardiness!, - Tuesday, July 22, 2003 at 13:12:13 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

Minion: *smirking* Thank you, Gerve. I’m afraid the Interrogator gets all the good clothes on the show. *looking about furtively* Don’t tell HIM I said that.

Mary Anne watches and smiles as the cameras flash quick takes of the studio audience—people laughing with their pleasure in the joke, in Minion’s ability to step into his role and back out again, though it is curious to see how many of those people take a wary look around them, almost as if they do expect The Interrogator to appear. And that, clearly, is part of the enjoyment for them.

They won’t laugh while they’re watching Mistral in action, she muses, but for now? They like it. Scaring themselves. Thinking of what it would be like if HE walked out onto the stage right now, or what if they turned and HE was in the seat right beside them . . .

A glance at the other end of the sofa.

Mistral’s eyes are fixed upon her.

Mary Anne flushes, resisting the instinct to pull up the collar of her dressing gown. That look—not invasive, as it would certainly be from someone like Valmont, but thorough, as though committing the image of her to some private picture gallery of the imagination. Mistral, as she knows, could make a woman feel undressed in a suit of armour—or jeweled and gowned to haute couture perfection in nothing but a cotton robe. But what to make of this . . . this speculative smoulder in his eyes . . .

She plucks at the sleeve of her robe. “No Cyprian goddess tonight.”

If she had expected him to laugh and be distracted, she had erred. “Mary Anne, it is not entirely a matter of clothing.” No laugh. A smile. A slow smile, a fire kindling.

Minion: That’s right. Originally I had a non-speaking part as a cringing subordinate.

Gerve: What happened?

Minion: Well… once I was capitalized there was no stopping me…

That does earn a laugh from Mistral. “I shall have to take a much harder line with these cringing subordinates in the future. Remember that in your scripts. All of my henchmen are to be strictly lower case.”

“What, no henchwomen?”

“Henchpersons, then, if you like, but keep the letters small!”

Stretched out at his ease, still savouring his cup of chocolate, this is Mistral Relaxed and there will never be a better moment.

“Mistral, why are you here?”

The cup stops halfway to his lips. Slowly, he lowers it to the table and turns to her, curious eyebrow on the rise. “Why, I told you . . .”

Mary Anne settles into her corner of the sofa. “I know what you said. But was I really so badly off at work today that you made a special trip here to check on me?”

Mistral begins a reply, to be checked by Mary Anne’s raised, admonitory finger, and her soft reminder of “Really?” She watches as he sits in silence, expecting that at any moment he will retreat behind the Great Wall of Mistral, hoping that he will not. She is grateful for his concern and will say so . . . but his long silence, that inward look of distraction, argues that there is more to tell, and so Mary Anne waits. His face, at least, is reassuring: neither angry nor haughty nor hurt, but taut with extreme concentration, a man trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface. Deep in this concentration, he raises his cup once more to his lips, drains it, and sets it on the table, then eases himself back into the sofa cushions, half-turned toward her, one arm negligently draped across the back of the couch.

“Mary Anne, what are your . . . impressions of the Museum Gala last night?”

MA--"Type, type, type, the gals are posting/Posting all around the world . . . " Falling in with those marching orders. ;-)
I get to hug The Director?! That is so sweet! *huggles*, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 20:46:34 (PDT)

Ack! D.o.C., could you change "mouthly" to mouth? Thank you kindly :-D
Sandy
- Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:22:50 (PDT)

Connemara, Ireland - Wedding Reception:

Alexander gazed down at his half-eaten meal of rare prime rib and carefully placed his fork next to the plate. He exhaled softly and continued staring down at his meal.

"Alex?" Sandy's voice broke in softly, her voice filled with genuine worry.

"Yes?" Alexander didn't look up at her.

"Is there something wrong with your meal?" Sandy asked.

A low growl in the throat. "No. It's FINE!"

David and Roberta exchanged glances at the sharp tone in the Englishman's voice. "What's wrong, then? Are you not feeling okay?" Roberta asked.

Alexander rolled his eyes in frustration as he lifted his head to gaze at the others sitting around the table. They all gazed back at him with notable concern on their faces. "I feel like I'm eating their bloody food!" he exclaimed as he jabbed a thumb in the general direction of Deirdre and Fiona, who had somehow managed to wedge themselves between Alexander and David, their tails wagging happily at the sound of his voice. The two canines looked up at him adoringly, their eyes filled with what could only be described in human terms as complete and utter hero worship.

Sandy, who was sitting at Alexander's right side, nodded sagely. "Well, the meat certainly *is* bloody enough," she said with a throaty chuckle. "Ouch! Hey! Watch where you're putting that!" she exclaimed as Brendan's wagging tail whacked against her leg. She reached out and patted the Irish wolfhound's neck. The third canine co-conspirator that was reigning terror upon Table Six turned his head and wagged his tail again to acknowledge the affectionate gesture before turning back to gaze lovingly at Alexander, who was slumped down in his seat.

"Very funny!" Alexander growled, his brow furrowing together in a ferocious scowl. "Why ME? What could I have *possibly* done in a past life to deserve this?" he sighed to the world at large. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table in exasperation as he put his left elbow on the table and cupped his face with his hand. "Sit!" he mumbled and the three dogs immediately did as he commanded, their long pink tongues lolling out as they panted loudly in tandem.

"Maybe it's because they think you're special?" David offered, his ice-blue eyes twinkling with sudden mischief.

Roberta clapped a hand over her mouth to cover up a sudden coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like laughter to Alexander's ears.

Sandy made no such attempt to disguise her amusement and laughed merrily while Alexander slumped down further in his seat. "Oh, Alex! Please don't be so upset. Dogs are just plain *weird* sometimes. I should know! Ollie---"

"Would qualify as a light snack for one of these brutes," Alexander finished grumpily.

Sandy sighed, reached out, and put her hand over Alexander's. She gently squeezed it - both as a gesture of affection and in an effort to stop him from drumming a hole through the table. "Just be glad that they're not trying to sit on your lap," she pointed out. She looked down and grinned as Brendan put his head on top of her arm and continued looking up at Alexander expectantly with shining brown eyes.

Alexander groaned in dismay at Sandy's observation. "OH GOD...." His eyes closed as he pictured in his mind three Irish wolfhounds vying for the 'privilege' of sitting on his lap. He shuddered a little at the resulting mental image and opened his eyes just as one of the wedding guests took a group shot of the people and animals sitting at the table to surprised shouts from the humans and accompanying howls by the canine contingent.

"Thanks! And wait until Mary sees that I've got a picture of Alexander Dane! She's going to be *so* jealous! HA!" The woman then made an excited squealing noise and skittered away to the next table before anybody could utter a word.

"I never expected to be rendered temporarily blind and deaf at a wedding reception," Alexander grumbled as he continued blinking while the aftereffects of the blinding flash slowly faded away.

"Neither did the rest of us!" David replied, still rubbing at his eyes.

Melanie and Jack came over to their table, both of them wearing very distressed expressions on their faces. "I'm *so* sorry, you guys!" Jack exclaimed. "I should've warned you that I've got a camera-happy aunt..."

"And an eccentric uncle that *really* loves his pets," Melanie chimed in, flushing deep red and putting her hand over her eyes. "Oh boy..."

Roberta shrugged her shoulders. "Better that the Terrible Trio is *here* than the lot of them making that unearthly racket like they did before when your uncle took them away from the table," she said.

"Really. It's not your fault, you two," Alexander said quietly.

The newlyweds gazed at Alexander uncertainly and he smiled at them. "I've had stranger things happen to me." They looked unconvinced at his words of reassurance. "Trust me."

"Like eating rotten sushi or sliding down tunnels filled with stinky green slime?" Sandy queried, her eyes glittering as a wide grin surfaced.

An eyebrow arched up as welcome laughter broke out and loud thumps could be heard as the dogs' tails wagged and hit against Sandy's, Alexander's, and David's chair legs. "Among *other* things," Alexander allowed, his lips curving up in amusement as he glanced in her direction.

A miniature three-year old version of Melanie with startling deep blue eyes dressed in a light pink frilly dress ran over to their table and came to a screeching halt next to Roberta. She gazed up at Alexander in wide-eyed amazement. "Doctor Lass-russ?" she asked finally.

"Wow, she's **good**! She recognized you without the..." Sandy's voice trailed off as Alexander's smile turned wan. "Uh, never mind." She squeezed his hand again in silent reassurance.

Melanie cleared her throat. "Everybody, this is my niece Siobhan," she said by way of introduction. "She's...um.... a *really* big fan of..."

"Hi!" the group around the table chorused before Melanie could finish the rest of her sentence. Again, there was a loud, thumping noise as the dogs enthusiastically beat their tails against the chair legs.

The little girl beamed at them, her perfect white baby teeth glistening in the reception hall lights. "HI!" she shouted back. She raised her right hand up and cheerfully proclaimed at the top of her lungs just as her parents came to collect her, "BY CRAPBAR'S HAMMER, BY THE SONS OF WOMBAT, YOU SHALL BE... REVENGED!"

All activity in the reception hall ground to a halt as people whipped their heads around to stare at the people sitting at Table Six. There was a loud crash as one of the caterers, startled by the yelling, accidentally dropped a tray of empty champagne flutes on the floor. There was a sudden flurry of activity as several co-workers went over to help their colleague clean up the mess.

Jack and Melanie watched in alarm as the blood drained from Sandy's face and it turned a horrible gray shade. Roberta began biting her nails, her light brown eyes wide with worry and David simply stared at Siobhan, his mouthly slightly agape in shock. Jack felt the tips of his ears begin to burn and Melanie's face turned bright scarlet. Siobhan's parents reached out for their daughter and began to pull her back, but Alexander raised his hand to signal a stop.

Alexander's face turned solemn as he gazed at the rapt child for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time to the adults in the hall. Even the dogs were waiting in silent anticipation of what the Englishman would do.

Finally, in a soft voice that carried easily throughout the entire reception hall courtesy of his many years of vocal training and years on the stage, Alexander murmured, gazing steadily at the enchanted little girl, "By *Grabthar's* Hammer... By the Suns of *Warvan*... You shall be..." He paused on the last word, his voice lowering even further and his eyes widening as he uttered the final word: "...avenged."

There was a ten second stunned silence before loud applause and excited barking rose up in the reception hall. Siobhan's parents smiled as Alexander inclined his head forward before escorting the little girl away while his co-workers stared at him in stunned amazement. Alexander nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, calmly picked up his champagne flute, and took a sip of the bubbling liquid.

Melanie and Jack exchanged grins and politely excused themselves, walking over to the next table with smiles on their faces.

Sandy sagged forward in her chair, exhaling in relief before she turned her head to glance at Alexander, who smiled at her serenely. "I just hope that *somebody* got that on videotape!" she exclaimed and began giggling at the expression of mock outrage on his face, which quickly transformed into a sheepish grin.

Sandy - popping up for air and a dose of *un*reality ;-)
The homage is rather obvious, I hope!, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:19:49 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Nottingham Courtyard Set
All-Hands Meeting
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation

PLEASE NOTE: This meeting takes place before Sandy and Alexander Dane leave for Ireland, to attend Melanie and Jack's wedding.

"Kidnapping?!" gasped Diane. "Who were they trying to kidnap?"
"Your Director." Detective Miles Graff replied.
Melanie dropped into her chair with an audible thump.

"But that's not possible!"cried Grainne, the lighting technician. "Nobody here would do that!"

"Ah, yes," Detective Ekaterin Silvert snarled softly from behind Graff's shoulder. "Your much-vaunted community of friends, who would never dream of such a thing, with whom you must bond together to protect from the cruel intrusiveness of the evil police," she said, anger openly rippling through her voice. Heads around the room turned and stared at her, mouths agape. "We came to help you people," she said. "And you had the unmitigated gall to treat us as if we were interfering in your lives? To purposely interfere with the investigation? To abuse, insult and denigrate police officers who are just trying to work? What is with you people? We have more important things to do than search for missing laptop computers."

"So why weren't you?" called a voice from the back of the room.

"Because your Director requested assistance from the authorities before deciding our methods would interfere with his finances--" The Director, Claudia and Ed jerked guiltily in their seats. "But unlike some individuals employed here, we don't let our... offbeat sense of humour --" she drawled the word out, fixing Sandy with a frigid, angry eye "-- stop us from helping other people do their jobs." She faced the rest of the group. "Otherwise you would have a very dead Director on your hands --" the room went utterly silent as the blood drained from the Director's face "-- and you could all go looking for new employment." She turned to Alex, her voice all sweet malice. "I hear they want to make Galaxy Quest films, Mr. Dane. Perhaps you could have gotten a job there. You're lucky to have fans who tolerate your abominable, bullying behavior." She stepped over to Alex and handed him a slip of paper she'd drawn from her slacks pocket.

"What?--" he started to ask.

"It's Leonard Nimoy's phone number, Mr. Dane," Silvert said, coldly, eyeing him with utter contempt. "Obviously you have a great deal to learn about... love." Her glance swept the room with disgust. "You will be contacted by the district attorney when this case comes up for trial. I hope you cooperate with that office more than you did with ours." Silvert turned, militarily precise, on her heel and strode out, leaving the room staring at her infuriated wake.

Graff cleared his throat. There was quiet gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Are there any questions?"

The room was silent and still for a moment. Then Therese put up a tentative hand.

"Yes, Ms. Gellert?"

"What did she mean by a... dead... Director?"

Graff sighed. "According to their preliminary statements, Ms. Ledbury, Ms. Njalson, Mr. Rosier and Mr. Wilkes had allegedly planned to kidnap your Director and hold him for a ransom of 8 million pounds." The stone-silent room was suddenly filled with gasps and murmurs. "Failing the ransom being raised, he was, apparently, to be, uhm..."

"Killed?" Mary Anne said softly, her clear voice carrying above the rising mutter.

Graff nodded. He glanced over at the FoF Director, whose eyes were wide and stunned. "Sir?" Graff murmured, touching him lightly on the upper arm. The man's eyes swung up blindly. "If you choose, we have a number of resources available to you." The FoF Director nodded and awkwardly unfolded from his chair.

"Thank you," the Director said tonelessly. He stared blindly ahead.

"I believe this concludes our investigation into the assault on your Director. Ms. Claudia, Ed, I also have information on that missing computer. Mr. Snape?"

FoF employees slowly began to come forward, Mary Anne being the first. After placing an uncertain hand on his forearm, she stepped up and embraced him wordlessly. Tugging on Claudia and Ed's sleeves, and nodding to Snape to precede them, Graff quietly left the room.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Is this too much for you ladies? :D, - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 18:05:23 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

“Oh never mind, I must leave at once.”
lee
- Monday, July 21, 2003 at 17:04:58 (PDT)

The Investigation
Flashback to Evening of Day Nine of the Investigation
Dale Rosier's building

"Dale Rosier?" Detective Miles Graff spoke to the door.

"Yeah?"

"This is Detective Graff. We spoke last week after the thefts from Flights of Fancy."

"Yeah?" Rosier's voice rose in suspicion, through the door. Graff and his partner, Detective Ekaterin Silvert, stood in the hallway outside Dale Rosier's flat. Rosier lived in an extraordinarily clean building, one he shouldn't be able to afford, considering his other habits.

"My partner and I have a few more questions for you; could we come in?" Graff nodded at Silvert, who had her hand near her shoulder holster under her jacket, pretending she was rooting for her wallet or notebook in her inner jacket pocket. No threat here, she radiated, no threat at all. Just a dame who ought to have a purse.

"Uh,-- " Some low-voiced conversation occurred on the other side of the door. "Yeah, just a sec." Some shuffling and muttering. The lock clicked open. "C'mon in," Rosier said, surly-voiced.

Graff smiled up at Rosier, a burly man who topped him by almost two feet. "Thank you, Mr. Rosier. This won't take long."

Silvert lifted her eyes briefly to Rosier's face as he looked down on Graff. Fear, her mind automatically jotted, as if it had a notepad in hand. Anger. But mostly fear. She glanced around at the two others in the room and nodded her hello. "Ms. Njalson. Mr. Wilkes."

"So what do you want to know?" Rosier asked, his arms crossed threateningly and defensively over his barrel chest. Silvert hated running confrontations with Graff. He always did something crazed. This time was no exception.

"Why'd you think you'd get away with it, Rosier?"

"What?" Rosier's face ran red.

"And you, Wilkes," Graff said, turning to the gangly set worker. "Did you think that somebody wouldn't talk?"

Njalson laid her hand on Wilkes' forearm. "What're you talking about?" she asked.

"Oh, I think you know, Ms. Njalson," Graff breathed to her as he crossed the room. The faces followed him like iron filings to a magnet (homage), leaving Silvert forgotten in the hallway. Rosier stepped after Graff. "Where's Ms. Ledbury, Mr. Rosier?"

"Annie?" Rosier shrugged. "I dunno. She doesn't tell me everything she plans to do."

"I know where she is," Graff said. He waited for three people's attention to focus, laser-like, on him. "She's in custody."

Njalson's lips thinned. "What did she do?"

"She didn't succeed," Graff replied, "at getting away."

Wilkes sneered at Rosier. "I told you Anne was a loser, Dale."

Rosier snapped back, "And you think the Ice Queen there is an improvement?"

"Shut up, dumb*ss."

"Shut up yourself, you fu --" Rosier snarled.

"Shut up the both of you," Njalson said. "What's the point of this little excusion into fantasy, Detective Graff?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you the reasoning behind this." Graff brought out a sheet of thick paper, a red seal gleaming richly on the bottom. Rosier shouldered forward.

"What is it?"

"It's a search warrant, Mr. Rosier, for your flat, your automobile and your personal workspace on the Flights of Fancy Studio," Graff explained. "This," he said, drawing a second piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it, "is for searching Mr. Wilkes' flat, his automobile and his personal workspace." With his words, the three civilians coiled tighter and tighter.

"And this," Silvert's voice came from behind them, where she held up a third piece of paper with her left hand, her right hand still in her jacket, "is for Ms. Njalson's flat, her computer and her workspace at Flights of Fancy."

The two men froze; Njalson made to bolt. Silvert moved with swift economy. "No, Ms. Njalson," she said, her Glock in hand. Flat matte finish. Quiet click as the safety was removed. Menace rolled off the firearm in ways the light never could. "We would like you to accompany us quietly to the station, where you can join Ms. Ledbury."

Njalson's eyes jerked back toward Graff, who also had his gun out, resting heavy in his hands, as he spoke into a handheld radio. More police flowed through the doorway into Rosier's apartment.

"Trudchen Amalia Njalson, you have the right to remain silent; anything you say may be used against you..." Constable Doushnakovi's voice rose quietly behind the other two officers making the formal arrests. "Dale Fenton Rosier, you have the right..." and "Jonathan Booth Wilkes, you have the right..."

Silvert leaned against the wall with a small sigh. Graff leaned against the wall next to her. She cracked one eye open. "You're insane, you know."

Graff shrugged.

"Someday, you're going to get plugged, Miles, and you'll go down, still wondering, 'What did I say? What did I say?'" Silvert said, with a touch of asperity. (homage)

"Strike one more for the good guys, Ekaterin."

Silvert released one weary chuckle. "Are we the good guys?"

"Of course." Graff sounded surprised. "Don't tell me you're giving up on that."

Silvert pushed off from the wall. "I'm not; I'm not. It's just that--" she lowered her voice "--it's been hard to remember that we're the good guys over the past two weeks. We certainly weren't being treated like we were the good guys."

Graff nodded with a grimace at the memories.

"I was fairly tempted to give it up and let them wallow in the consequences," she said.

"Ekaterin, Ekaterin," Graff said, tsking. "You know the old saying --"

She pursed her lips and her brows rose in tandem. "Which one?"

A grin split Graff's face. "'Never give up. Never surrender.'" (homage, homage)

Silvert groaned and tilted back to the wall, as Graff's laughter filled the flat hallway.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
.... and now, back to the show...., - Monday, July 21, 2003 at 05:18:41 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

lee
Les, (Great to have a new Rickman fan with us!) Thank you! I did indeed have a wonderful time in Florida. Disney is not exactly Rickman oriented so what saved me were my few solitary moments with my “Return of the Native tapes, headphones, the paperback book, and Snape bookmark. I know most of you can relate! It’s good to be home. :), - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 22:14:14 (PDT)

Hello all! I have appreciated Mr. Rickman's work at an early age, but not until Harry Potter arrived on the list did I give it a second thought. I love your stories; there is alot of talent posted on this site. Even though I live 150 miles from Hollywood itself, I've only met one "celebrity" (Randy Travis) after a Christian Concert. Mrs. Carson, I hope you're having a wonderful time in Florida and I await your next installment of "True Love's Curse". Good night to all and I'll visit again soon :-)
Les from California <Lompocian1982@go.com>
a new A.R. fan and reader of Flights of Fancy stories, - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 21:50:36 (PDT)

Barabra--*whatever* in the world was in those marching orders! Yow! All right the rest of you holiday lot, MA says you've vacated Alabama (were you ladies escorted from the state?), so the three of you, quit foolin' around and get those fingers going again!

Welcome back to the Realm, ye thrill-seekers.
R
Diane--I'd pay serious debt service to hear the lyrics of that Grubers song..., - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 20:41:10 (PDT)

A helpless victim? Oooo this could be fun! :D (j/k)
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.comfoo>
Am I back from the dead? LOL, - Sunday, July 20, 2003 at 10:14:03 (PDT)

Flashback to Night of Day Nine of the Investigation
Phil's Flat

Phil walked down the hallway to Barbara's office and opened the door without knocking.

The door swung open to a wide cityscape, with bombed-out buildings. The walls were grey and made of veined stone. The veins were a darker grey and avoided the fingers Phil laid on the stone, sliding away like two magnets with the same polarity. He could smell ash in the air, and taste it. He looked up. In the distance, he could see a few gleaming towers among the ruins. He moved toward them.

The closest was a shining silver, like a blunted pyramid. In each window flickered faces, faces he was certain were familiar, if he could only remember them. A bearded man, laughing in front of pine trees. A dark-haired woman in a corral of horses. Two women's hands, entwined. He reached out to touch the shining side of the building.

It trembled.

Phil dropped his hand. He craned his neck around, searching, looking. The next closest tower was a few blocks away. He moved toward it, gliding on feet that never moved, over sidewalks thick with ash. He left troughs behind him, as if a plow had split the ash for planting.

The tower was a softly glowing blue, made of scaffolding and beams. Random rooms were set like gems in a latticework, finished and decorated. The largest was a dark ruby red, unicorn tapestries on the walls, a friendly fire flickering in the fireplace. He could see more rooms, up and up the framework, sparkling in the heights. He reached out to the red room, wanting to touch the walls, waiting for it to tremble. His hand passed through it -- room, framework, fire -- like grasping smoke. It wavered and steadied behind the path his hand had taken.

He frowned. The framework grew cloudy walls around each room, obscuring them from sight. He reached out to the building again. It was hard to the touch, and cold. He sighed and dropped his hand. "Everything I touch is ruined," he cried.

Not ruined. The voice came on a wind that didn't stir the air. It came from the tallest tower, made of rose-colored shapes, a gridwork of crossbars, of "x" shapes. Phil peered at it. It suddenly loomed in his sight like a swooping hawk.

Those weren't beams.

They were men.

Each "beam" was a man, standing like St. Andrew's cross. Men without faces. Men with faces. Men he knew.

Not ruined, they sighed out onto the air, the men, the building of them. One leaned down, looked at him from Mistral's eyes. Another frowned at him with Brandon's face. One reached down a glowing rose hand. Phil took it.

He found himself hoisted up into the air, passed from hand-to-hand up the side, up the center of the building, in a blur of hands clasping and unclasping his own until, finally, he stood in a small room at the top of the tower. The last man-shape dropped him there, a gentle smile on Dev's lips, and faded back away through the walls.

It looked like any other room he had ever seen: four walls, a floor, a ceiling. Two windows looked out onto the bombed-out city, the grey still dark and chilling even through the rose glow of the building. A lone figure stood in front of one of the windows, tracing patterns on the glass, wiping them away with the sleeve of its robe, then breathing on the glass and drawing new lines in the steam.

He knew that graceful lift of hand, that long neck curving just so, hair moving like a living thing.

Barbara.

She turned. Had he spoken aloud? She turned away, turned back, turned away, her arms rising from her sides. He noticed her robe lifting away, like the curl of skin from an apple in an apple peeler. The robe hovered above her, like a spring peeled from her body as she slowly turned before him. He could not see her face.

She stopped, nude, before him.

Her skin was white, almost opalescent in the soft rose of the building. Her hair moved in no wind, swinging behind her, shifting across the front of her body. He could see a blue vein arc across the skin from below her collarbone to the join of her shoulder. His hand lifted of his own accord.

Two graceful hands locked around his wrist and brought his palm to her face. Her eyes were large and dark, her face calm, her skin was warm -- so warm! -- and soft under his fingers.

With a groan, he pulled her near and they were falling, tumbling into a bed that rose into existence beneath them, and her mouth was hot and eager against his own.

He ran his hand down the sides of her ribs, tracing the inward curve of waist and the outward flare of hip. She pressed against his hand as it moved. He drew his fingers across her belly and her back arched to meet his touch. His lips pressed against hers, his hands sought her hair, her shoulders, her hips.

He rolled, she rolled with him and her hair tumbled down on them both like the walls of a cathedral. She was silhouetted against the light, her dark hair, her white skin; her long hands on his chest, her lips following after, her knees by his hips, her pelvis moving under his sweating hands.

The world shattered with her name.

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

Phil awoke, sweating and shaking and shamed.

He was standing, only heartbeats later, under a shower that stung him with needles of cold water. He turned the temperature up to hot, and tried to scour his desire from his skin.

It had all felt so real.

He should have known it was a dream. He should have known. But her skin, her hair, her mouth, her hands soft and graceful as wings . . . He cranked the water back to cold and stood under the pelting water until he began to shiver.

Phil stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his eyes looked haunted and guilty -- even to himself. His lips were blue, his hands stiff with cold.

He crossed back to his bedroom and stripped the sheets from the mattress with distaste curling his lip. He tied his robe securely around his waist and huddled up in the center of the bed.

He stared at the walls until his alarum rang, shivering and awake in the darkness.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA, Cindie and Therese gave me my marching orders.... Well, I fulfilled my assignment!, - Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 22:01:34 (PDT)

Joan
For inspiration? Well, it depends.... The Investigation stems from a Real Life incident in the life of Claudia. She mentioned it here, so I picked it up and ran 300 yards with it :D
Usually, though, we pick up one of AR's characters (see the list of available characters at the top of the page -- the Who's Who) and go from there.

Diane
You're just my helpless victim! *Bwaahahahahahahahha!* Ahem. I just needed a name and you fit the bill! :D
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:43:25 (PDT)

Dear FoF writers: Do you get some inspiration from the GB's here? Like phrases, for example? Or specific words?
Joan
- Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:37:33 (PDT)

Whoa, how did I get thrown into Barbara's story??? (lol, unless it is another Diane?) :D
Me
Wore my SPAM shirt today! LOL, - Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 16:11:46 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Nottingham Courtyard Set
All-Hands Meeting
Morning of Day Ten of the Investigation

PLEASE NOTE: This meeting takes place before Sandy and Alexander Dane leave for Ireland, to attend Melanie and Jack's wedding.

Detective Miles Graff stood before the gathered population of Flights of Fancy and smiled. "I'd like to thank you all for coming. I know this was a last-minute call and both my partner and I appreciate that you've taken time out of your busy timetable to listen to what we've learned." Graff cleared his throat. "The first thing I'd like to discuss is the nightclub called 'DeMontfort's.' It's more than a nightclub. It's a front for some sophisticated money-laundering, loan-sharking, racketeering and illegal gambling activities. Once an individual falls into that sort of company, he or she finds it very difficult to get ba--"

He was cut off by Melanie, who clearly looked at the end of her patience, jumping to her feet.

"I can't believe you two! We don't have time for this garbage!" Jack laid a calming hand on the back of her neck, but Melanie shrugged it off. "You've completely messed up our schedule! We have to film before the wedding and you're screwing the whole bloody thing up! First you come in here, snooping into everyone's lives, and disrupting our work. Then you can't even protect the Director from some psycho fans. And now you've arrested four FoF employees!" Melanie said to the room at large. A murmur rose in the background. "Dale and John work on soundstage 3. What are you trying to do, cripple the entire storyline? We've got too much work to do for this stupid meeting."

"We have arrested Dale Rosier and John Wilkes, as well as Anne Ledbury from Wardrobe, and Trudchen Njalson from Administration, for first-degree assault and attempted kidnapping," Graff said. "Federal criminal charges were filed last night." Melanie swayed, jaw slack with surprise. A smirk slid across Silvert's mouth and disappeared into her usual serene expression.

"Kidnapping?!" gasped Diane, her hair still damp from her morning wash. The room filled with murmured speculation. "Wait a minute -- who were they trying to kidnap?"

Graff hesitated, before replying.

"Your Director."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
And the Investigations near their ends...., - Friday, July 18, 2003 at 19:48:17 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE Thurs-Fri

lee
Thanks Pam, Check this out! Missing you all from Florida, ( I only get 15 minutes!) I will try for the weekend!, - Friday, July 18, 2003 at 12:50:22 (PDT)

Off-Set, Therese's Flat outside of Richmond Park:

Eamon DeValera lowered his long legged frame to the floor positioning himself cross-legged in front of the bookshelves. He let out another sigh, one of many since he’d begun his perusal of Therese’s bookshelves. This time the offense was discovering that To Kill a Mockingbird was positioned several volumes in front of All Creatures Great and Small. Another sigh. T before A. Fiction interspersed with non-fiction. This was bad. Very bad.

Therese was standing in the center of the large space she now shared with her recently evicted betrothed. She could see him, his long fingered hands moving to rearrange her beloved, if somewhat dusty, volumes. Her eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

“This is wrong.” His declaration rang through the converted warehouse as he gestured toward the offending volumes, “There is no room for my things, Yeats, Roberts' Rule of Order—-it’s not as if they can be placed haphazardly.”

Arms akimbo Therese squared off against the man she loved. “That’s my favourites section. I know where they are; you’ll ruin it.”

Eamon was not the sort of man to have an ordered world dismissed so lightly. “And their being alphabetized would hinder that?” The challenge was clear.

Therese stood stock still for a heartbeat before deciding on her course of action. In a flash of motion she gathered up car keys and Tory’s lead. “I have to go now.” She called for the wonder dog, whose head had already perked up at the sound of Therese’s preparations. The next thing Eamon knew he had been kissed and abandoned and the Velcro cat had threaded itself onto his lap. Dev sighed again. He’d only been moved in a day ago and Therese had already run away from home.

Cindie was just debating whether to brew tea or open a bottle of wine when the knock came at the door. The spokesman on the telly was droning on about the virtues of toast as part of a heart healthy diet. The show wasn’t one she normally watched but she was finding Gerve’s smarmy charm oddly compelling. Rafter looked up as if to enquire whether the human was going to acknowledge the entreaty. Cindie uncrossed her ankles, the pink ears on the bunny slippers flopping as she did so, and went to the door. Half hoping and half fearing it was Mistral she instead found Therese and Tory, the former holding a bag brimming with little paper cartons and the latter already being greeted by Rafter.

“Are you relieved or disappointed?” Apparently her trepidation had showed on her face, and Therese well knew just who her friend had anticipated.

“Thrilled. Is that all for us?” Cindie caught a carton as it began to topple out the top of the brown bag and motioned Therese into her living room.

“Yes. Therese began pulling what seemed an endless supply of the take-away food out of the sack and setting them on the coffee table. “I’ve got Moo Shu Pork, Szechwan Chicken, egg rolls, wonton soup, lo mein, prawns and lobster sauce.” She looked up with a grin, “And some things for you as well.”

Deciding on the wine, Cindie pulled a corkscrew from the drawer and brought the bottle over. The two dogs finished exchanging their greetings, had evidently come to an accord, and lay curled up on the oversized chair which Cindie had covered with a blanket. Each of them had one eye on the take-away cartons from which tantalizing aromas emanated.

“Is Chef on yet?” Therese asked as she tore open the paper wrapper from a set of chopsticks.

“No, its still Gerve Mittens.” Cindie grabbed up the lo mein.

Therese went for the Moo shu, “I completely forgot! I didn’t miss Minion did I?” At Cindie’s shake of the head she went on, “Oh good. He’s such a little cutie.” Cindie supposed that next to Dev almost any man would seem little.

The picture sometime later was of a flat littered with take-away cartons thick as tribbles over the surfaces of counter and tabletops. A second bottle of wine had been nearly polished off and the dogs were still curled up together, now in post Foo Yung somnolent bliss, their seemingly perfect accord, mirrored by the other two females in the room. Minion’s appearance had been avidly watched and appreciated. Chef had entertained and Casualty, largely ignored in favour of conversation, was drawing to a close. The girls by this time had begun to delve into the pressing matters of men. Therese had explained about the bookshelves and the threats engendered by Paul McCatney’s naturally lovable though admittedly clingy disposition. It was an evening of confidences. Cindie had owned to spending much of her free time with Mistral. Therese had just asked the obvious question, “So what’s going on, why aren’t you out with him tonight?” when another knock sounded.

The pounding at the door was most untimely. The Alsatians objected to the interruption of their repose and gave vent. Cindie startled, jumped up amid the cacophony of the persistent rapping and the barking and threw open the door to reveal a scowling Eamon DeValera. Everyone began at once.

“Therese, you are—“

“What are you—“

“Doesn’t anyone use the security—“

“Your phone is—“

“One of the tenants is a –“

Dev’s voice cut through it all. “Therese, I grew worried when you didn’t ring me,” he began, his voice indicating his concern and displeasure. As he spoke he turned to acknowledge the owner of the flat and immediately paused, sensing her distress. He turned back to Therese, pinning her down with a dark eyed glare, “We’ll deal with you, later,” then turned his full attention to Cindie. “All right, what’s the issue, come now, out with it.”

the girls in Bessemer
Cindie, Mary Anne, and Therese (if you hadn't guessed), - Friday, July 18, 2003 at 10:31:29 (PDT)

1. Galaxy Quest (By the Movie Themes)
2. Softly, Softly (By Miss Marianne Dashwood)
3. Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Any More… (By Jamie and the Ghosts)
4. Let Me Blow UR Hair (By The Cut Above)
5. The Ireland National Anthem
6. Motors R’Us (By The O’haras)
7. I Have A License To Be Crazy ((‘cause I’m a Rickmaniac)) (By The Rickmaniacs)
8. Double Double, Cauldron Bubble (By The Snapes)
9. I’ll Meet You On The 16th Floor ((if you’re not in Disney land)) (By Ed and the Artists)
10. Meet You In The Corral, Mate (By the Marstons)
11. You Shot MY glass, Mein Liebe (By the Grubers)
12. Don’t Make Me Say That Stupid Line Baby ONE MORE TIME (by the Questerians)
13. We Can Work Things Out, So Put Away That Spoon (By The Rickmaniacs)
14. Look what you did to my suit! (By The Voice)
15. NO ALIENS (By The Director)
16. It’s Too Bloody Cold In Here ((and the heater’s even on)) (By Jamie and the Ghosts)
17. Forgive me (By the Colonel)
18. I’ll Make You MY Masterpiece ((long as you don’t molest anything)) (By Ed and the Artists)
19. 1, 2, 3 but there will be no 4 (By the Hansgang)
20. There Are Some Things One Should NOT Do ((for their country)) (By Dev and The Irish Republic)
21. Ring that little church bell (By Dev and The Irish Republic)
22. Give Me An Occupation ((or I shall run mad)) (By the Colonel)
23. I Have A Date At 10:45 ((but I’m allowed to bring a friend)) (By The Rickmaniacs)
24. That Exact Art And Subtle Science… (By The Snapes)
25. We Will We Will Style You… (By The Cut Above)
26. Yippe-Kie-Yay (By The Hansgang)
27. It’s An Awfully Big Adventure (By The O’haras)
28. Nottin’ Better Than A Tequila (By The Voice)
29. CUT I SAID CUT (By the Director)
30. You Broke The Bloody Ship (By the Questerians)
31. Dude, Where’s My Protector 2? (By the Questerians)
32. Harry Potter (by the Movie Themes)
33. I Love You Truly, Madly, Deeply (By Jamie and the Ghosts)
34. Ooops I Did It Again ((I blew up my Potion)) (By the Snapes)
35. You’ll Never Be As Good As Me (By the Marstons)

Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Hey, found the CUTEST shirt while I was in CA... it is navy blue and says SPAM at the top in bold yellow letters. :D , - Thursday, July 17, 2003 at 10:04:58 (PDT)

Lee, Thanks so much for the terrific story-it just gets better all the time! Keep up the good work and enjoy your vacation in Florida..I cant wait to see where this story is leading to.. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Wednesday, July 16, 2003 at 20:51:02 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Mon - Wed

“ That was very naughty of you, Severus.” She purred in his ear just before the kiss that would ultimately extend the nightcap by another two hours time.
lee
Hi from Fl :), - Wednesday, July 16, 2003 at 10:24:12 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

"Did I hear you correctly?" Joya's tone was cool and level. "You want me out of here by tomorrow morning?"

"Yes." I cleared my throat, then found I couldn't think how to begin. "Yes, that's right."

"Indeed." She turned away and pulled off her veil. "Of course, I've been expecting this."

I blinked. "You have?"

"Yes." The veil was tossed onto the clothes chest. Joya ran her fingers through her hair. "It was only a matter of time before you tired of me. And when I gave birth to a daughter rather than a son, I knew that it wouldn't be long." She slanted a glance at me from under her half-closed lids. "Although you have treated our baby with all the paternal care she could desire, for which I am grateful."

If a bolt of lightning had flashed through the window and struck me, I could not have been more shocked. For several moments all I could do was gape. Then my hands began to tremble and soon the tremours spread over my body. She surely couldn't be serious? Tire of Joya? The woman was mad!

"You mustn't think I blame you, George." Joya sat down on the bed and clasped her hands in her lap. "I'd like to think that we could still be friends. We've been through a lot together, after all."

The bed was at least twelve feet from the door; I'd crossed the distance several times a day. Even running it took me three or four steps. This time I leaped it in one powerful dive. I seized her by the shoulders and let my weight bear her back against the pillows. She gasped but stared up at me without flinching, her eyes large and clear and sparkling in the candlelight, a prisoner beneath me.

"How dare you even think such a thing?" My voice was raw and husky. I gave her a quick shake, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her shoulders. "You are mine! You belong to me! I will never give you up!"

She regarded me with some suspicion. "Never?"

"Never!" I reared back and, still holding her securely in place, adjusted my weight until I was kneeling on the bed. "Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?"

"It's not at all ridiculous. You're not used to settling for just one woman." She tried to shrug off my grip but I wouldn't let her. "And if you don't let go of me, I'm going to be bruised tomorrow morning."

"I didn't 'settle' for you." I hauled her up against me in one smooth motion and let go of her only to wrap my arms around her tightly. "I chose you. I fought for you." I pulled her closer and whispered into her ear, "And I make you mine at least once every day."

Joya closed her eyes and shivered. I let go and shoved her back down on the bed. "So let there be no more nonsense about me becoming tired of you. It's your safety I'm thinking of when I say that I want you out of the castle."

And I told her about my interrogation of Will Scarlet in the dungeon and his claim about having a "friend" in the castle. She lay on the pillows and didn't interrupt, her brows knit in concentration. When I finished, she didn't respond for some time.

"Well," She said finally. "That is a most interesting claim. How do we know he is speaking the truth?"

I leaned over to lift a long curl of her hair and wind it around my finger. "We know it's true because someone has been trying to kill you."

"And Marion." She smiled faintly.

"And Marion." I agreed. "Although that does not bother me overly much. I could easily survive her loss. No, I think we have no choice but to assume Scarlet's honesty on this matter. And that is why I want you out of this castle and somewhere safe as soon as possible."

"Where are you sending me? Surely not out of the town. It has to be close by so I can be here when the king arrives." Joya lifted herself on one elbow. Her gown and chemise, agitated from the rough treatment I had handed out, slipped off her shoulder and down her arm. The view was inspiring.

I nodded. "Of course. I am sending you to the goldsmith's house so you can stay with Lady Suzanne and her friend. You'll take Richard with you and they'll have a wonderful time playing nursey in the garden with her. I'll have half a dozen men patrolling the grounds and you can have Bertha to tend to your personal needs."

"You seem to have it all worked out. And I cannot deny that I want this mysterious note-leaver found." Joya arched a brow and smiled slowly. "But what about those 'personal needs' that Bertha isn't equipped to satisfy?"

I reached over to slip one finger into the gaping bodice of her gown and tugged at the material. "I will ride down there every day to take care of anything that requires my personal attention. You will make yourself available at those times so we can deal with whatever has come up on a daily basis."

Joya's smile widened. "I'm already looking forward to your visits."

"As am I." I stood up and yanked at the laces of my tunic. "And now let's get ready for bed. Tomorrow morning will come soon enough and I'll have to send a messenger to our Poitevin guests as soon as dawn breaks."

Joya rolled off the bed and began the laborious exercise of removing her heavy court gown. I helped where needed with some firm tugs and eventually we got it off and put aside without too much damage to the stitches. As she brushed out her hair and braided it for the night, I wandered over to the window and looked out over the calm, still landscape.

It would be some weeks before the snow fell but the air was chilly with the promise of frosts to come. I gazed out over the part of the town that I could see, noting that no one seemed to be active this late. No doubt everyone was home where they should be, huddling over fires or finishing up the tasks of the day. Below me on the parapets, I could hear my men-at-arms as they performed their guard duties, their footsteps echoing in the still night air.

Turning my head the other way, I looked out over the walls and the meadows to the large blackness that was Sherwood Forest. The only illumination in that direction came from the full moon overhead but it gave enough light to see that nothing moved over the ground. I was about to turn back into the room when a sudden movement caught my eye. I leaned out over the cold stone sill and craned to see what it was.

I had about decided that I was imagining things when a large animal appeared from under the castle walls and trotted in the direction of the woods. I squinted to bring it into better focus. It looked like a large dog but surely no peasant could afford to feed such a beast. Then it paused as if discerning my gaze and turned back in my direction. I was sure that it had seen me and then I caught my breath in wonder.

It was a red wolf, and a magnificent one at that. Motionless on the meadow, it's beautiful coat almost glowed in the moonlight. They were rare beasts, much less common than the gray and black wolves that usually prowled the forest. I felt a shiver go through me at the thought that it was so close. Then it turned away again and continued its run. In seconds it was gone, swallowed up by the blackness of the trees.

I pulled my head back into the room and let out the breath I suddenly realized I'd been holding. It must be an omen. A good omen, surely. As I closed and latched the shutters, I hoped that the same good fortune that kept it from being hunted would help Joya and I deal with our unknown enemy.

Magda
- Tuesday, July 15, 2003 at 19:16:10 (PDT)

George and Joya will appear later today and Redwolf, you will make a cameo appearance. Cheers.
Magda
Canada, - Tuesday, July 15, 2003 at 05:52:38 (PDT)

I don't mean to sound impatient but, isn't it about time for a bit from George and Joya? Iam practically hanging in suspense.
Redwolf
- Tuesday, July 15, 2003 at 00:04:16 (PDT)

sigh...thanks
ACC
- Monday, July 14, 2003 at 22:20:52 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

Sipping at his chocolate, Mistral smiles to himself. What would the fans think of this? Secretive Mistral, the man of mystery, the fearsome Interrogator indelibly stamped on the nightmares of thousands of viewers . . . the nightmares, and the dreams as well, if the fan mail can be believed . . . if they could see him here, now, with an innocent cup of chocolate . . .

Or perhaps not so innocent, this chocolate. Caught unaware by the velvety thickness of it, he takes a second sip.

“Mary Anne, this is extraordinary,” he exclaims as Mary Anne returns from another quick visit to the kitchen, carrying a plate of biscuits.

Smiling, she sets down the biscuits and resettles herself on the couch, tucking her feet up under her. “I’m glad you like it. When I make hot chocolate, I make hot chocolate.”

“I should say you do. What is in this?”

“There’s a good cocoa mix I use as the base, but I make it with hot milk. None of this thin-blooded hot water stuff. There’s a pinch of cinnamon in it, and fresh whipped cream. . .”

Mistral puts his head back and laughs, a low laugh but a hearty one. “The Director would have your head for this.”

“Only if you tell him, because I certainly won’t. Oh, and one other thing: vanilla sugar.“ Mary Anne leans toward him as if she is about to share some delightful secret. “There’s a crock of sugar in the kitchen with a whole vanilla bean buried in it; the taste goes all through the sugar. Perfect for special treats.”

“Am I a special treat, then?” It is lightly spoken. But he watches her, for the answer seems important. Somehow.

“Always.” Lightly replied.

A silence, as Mistral samples from the cup again—impossible to take more than one swallow, steaming hot. “This tastes like I sound.” Ease the moment with a deliberate jab at himself, but one that is no more than the truth. Thinking of his deep voice, he wonders for an instant whether he will sound deeper yet after emptying this cup, his lungs and throat and the very resonance chambers of his facial bones suffused with this dark sweetness.

A murmur of laughter from the other side of the couch. “That would explain some of the fan mail.”

“Some.” Not all.

“Can you imagine what the fans would say if they could see you like this?”

Mistral’s smile is instant, spontaneous, and unguarded. “I was thinking just exactly that, only a little while ago.”

Mary Anne’s eyes widen as she laughs—“Really!”—and Mistral can feel it between them, that flash of sympathy like firelight winking from the crystal prisms Mary Anne hangs in her windows. There have been times when he feels that no one understands him so well as she does; she knows the peculiar exasperation of being what one is not, day after day. Exasperation—and fulfillment. It is a challenging game, one he has no desire to give up, but some sympathy for the more trying moments of it is like water in the desert. Or hot chocolate on a cool night.

And never mind what the fans would say. Just this once.

Another of those silences, which Mary Anne breaks by reaching for the television remote. “It’s almost time for Minion’s interview!”

MA
All right, ACC, here's a little "fix" for you . . . ;-), - Monday, July 14, 2003 at 20:34:29 (PDT)

I have to know what is going on with Mistral, Cindy, George, Joya, Therese, Eamon, Colonel Brandon Marianne, Severus and Gweneviere....hint hint hint
ACC <in acute withdrawal from FOF>
- Monday, July 14, 2003 at 19:19:32 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Weekend

When the work was finished, they smoothly crossed over and delighted in the lighter facets of their respective personalities, which were steadily expanding after having made such rare appearances in their previously solitary lives. Their relationship was being built on a solid foundation of trust and mutual respect, owing to the profound similarities they shared.
lee
Bye Bye, - Friday, July 11, 2003 at 10:47:18 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Director's Office
Afternoon of Day Nine of the Investigation

Claudia told Ed and the Director what she'd overheard that morning:

"Aren't you going to tell them what happened to the laptop?" Detective Silvert had asked Detective Graff while Claudia'd flattened herself into the copier alcove next to the Director's office.

"No," Claudia'd heard the man reply. "Not until I can prove that the security tapes weren't tampered with. I have to wait for the final lab tests to come back first, Rutyer says." He'd stopped, she'd heard his heels scuff the floor. "They're a movie studio. They can do that sort of thing -- it's impossible otherwise, you know."

"Miles...."

"It's impossible, Ekaterin," the man had insisted. "You know it's impossible. It's got to be special effects."

"Looked like one of your kind of things to me," she'd shot back.

"Fiction, Ekaterin." Graff had sounded ... unnerved . Claudia'd knelt down and taken the risk of peeping around the corner. The short detective was gesticulating wildly up at his partner. "It's fiction. It just doesn't happen in real life, you know."

"But when everything else is wrong, Miles, and no other explanation fits--"

"--it's still fiction."

"Fiction. Right-o, then," the female detective had said, throwing up her hands. The pair had continued down the hall.

Claudia paced the room in her agitation. "I think they're going to arrest someone at FoF over this. They think we messed with the security tapes. Maybe they think it's insurance fraud. Maybe they're going to arrest Keene. Maybe they're going to arrest you, sir. Maybe they're going to arrest me. Maybe they're going to arrest us all and let us out only after we prove we couldn't have done it," Claudia said, her voice rising with the tension.

"And maybe you could be completely off-base and panicking prematurely," the Director said.

"Actually, I think she's panicking post-maturely. If she were panicking any later, it would be posthumously. I've been panicking for days," Ed replied. (homage)

It took the Director half an hour to calm them down.

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

"Finished?"

Detective Miles Graff sat in the chair, his legs swinging freely. His partner, Detective Ekaterin Silvert, tapped her pen against her lips and coolly repeated her statement..

"Yes, we should be finished here tomorrow."

"Finished?" asked the FoF Director again.

"Finished," said Graff.

"And what have you discovered?"

"We will be able to inform you tomorrow. That's why we're requesting a company-wide meeting."

"Look, you could just tell me and I will ensure that --" The Director broke off at Silvert's bright smile.

"Oh, no, Director," she said sweetly. "We will need to speak to everyone." She rose, and Graff followed her, brimming with suppressed energy. "Do make sure all your people are in attendance."

Barbara the Wallpaper-ER
Now, I wait for Sandy to get back :) Hurry up, woman, I want more wedding hi-jinks!! :D, - Thursday, July 10, 2003 at 19:27:50 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

lee
Thanks Pam, I will! : ) , - Thursday, July 10, 2003 at 15:35:58 (PDT)

"Afterwards" is a song, original to me.

Thanks, everyone, for the lovely things you've said.

Oh, I cried and cried..... *sniffle

Barbara the Wallpaper-ER
I am not wallpaper, I am a Wallpaper-ER, one who makes wallpaper... *grin* Just to be picky *g*, - Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 22:03:07 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE Thursday

By the cool down phase of her workout, the Quidditch equipment seemed to be playing the game perfectly well without the players’ involvement at all. She must find out what the point of this most unusual game was, so she could sit with Severus at the next game and watch his team win the trophy.
lee
Yes Joan, many believe that there is always a counterpart to everything, day and night, good and evil, creative and destructive. Thanks for your thoughts, good point., - Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 19:31:18 (PDT)

Lee, Have a great time in Florida! I just talked with my sister that lives there. The weather is hot but there are many interesting places to go and see. Your story is wonderful and I enjoy reading the struggle in Severus and Gwen. Maybe you could somehow have them going on a holiday together now too during a school break?? Who knows what will develop?? Whatever you write, I am sure it will be good. Every night I come here to read it. I have a pretty good story too, but dont want to publish yet. Many thanks for your fabulous stories and have fun in Florida. Pam
Pam H. <sholman@tmlp.com>
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 19:23:41 (PDT)

Hi Lee, re: Philosophy. Science says we have a creative drive and a destructive drive. We are born with these drives.

We do not come into the world pure and became corrupt as we go though life. It's that "urge to destroy" that gets mis-used. Destroying or neglecting what we have erodes our happiness. Protecting and caring for what we have strengthens our connection to life.

A simple example of respect for life and property is obeying traffice rules. Thank you for listening.
Joan
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 19:01:57 (PDT)

Was it Marcus Aurelius-spelling probably not right-where are those librarians when you need em?
ACC
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 12:11:50 (PDT)

That should read Judeo-Christian, as I am not referring to only the new testament obviously.
lee
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 09:55:56 (PDT)

Thank you all for posting such food for thought. I often ponder these issues and have addressed some of them in my story. It is always important to live and let live, when not in a position of responsibility to do otherwise. I don’t wish to impart my own system of conduct to anyone else through the story; I only wish to provoke thought to the matter and hope that Snape and Gwenevere will not be judged for what they choose as it is their choice to make regardless of what others may think.

Family values, morals, ethics, religious beliefs, truth, keeping promises, giving into impulse vs. doing what is “right” according to your personal belief system, or the way that you were raised. These are questions that we all face every day. The Bible is loaded with these issues! Oh yes, The Ten Commandments, how many of life’s woes can be traced to one of them? Even if you are not a “religious type” or Christian, the Bible is still a valuable and worthy piece of writing worth knowing about, as with all other religious writings. (In my opinion) What separates us from wild animals? To name two, it is our understanding that we will die, and our ability to override impulse. (Domestic animals override impulse everyday) When two people are in love, they naturally want to express that love in an intimate way. Sometimes when two people are attracted to each other, they want to express that as well, having nothing to do with love at all. (AABA comes to mind)

Gwenevere is struggling with three issues here, her grandmother’s teachings and the curse, which uses the powerful instrument of sexual attraction to perpetuate its life. (If the wizard lives, the curse dies and vice versa) The third being the fact that no wizard has survived this curse for almost five hundred years, so the odds are that Snape’s days are numbered.

Gwenevere is an extremely ethical person in that she does what “she” deems as right even though someone else may not agree with it. (e.g. reading minds in the courtroom) Snape is extremely ethical as well, in his own way. He holds true to his own personal set of standards, although many may not agree with him. Severus and Gwenevere deeply respect each other, as well as love, and infatuate.

I am assuming, for the purpose of the story, that Snape has no living family, at least none he associates with. The issue of him being involved with a “mudblood” is yet to be dealt with. Malfoy will not like it at all, as you can well imagine.
I would love to hear the opinions of others regarding such philosophy. 0:)
as ever, lee <potionmistress@hotmail.comfoofoo>
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 09:34:27 (PDT)

I'm waiting for Lee's meaning of "Family Values" before I assume any definition -- The question is always who's family? in this case, Gwenivere's (sp) family or the Snapes? -- the Snapes could have real issues, criminal -- or not. How about the Addams?? It could be that Dumbledore is trying to tell Guinnie something in a cryptic fashion, we'll just have to wait and see what this curse is all about and who is responsible for it.

the wait is going to be interesting - have a great vacation!!
Chandra
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 04:16:09 (PDT)

Human that is the only label to put on people. Glad you're learning, Ella. People sometimes judge others, reject them, and never find out what they missed.

"Nothing human is foreign to me". (quote author I'm sorry I don't know.)
Joan
- Wednesday, July 09, 2003 at 03:57:53 (PDT)

Barabara ....sniff. I don't want to cry all the time untill the next book ........wahhhhh! Thank you, anyway, it ....sniff....is right on the pulse.
Janine
- Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 22:15:54 (PDT)

Lee's a provocateur! Kudos to you :-D If we don't particularly care for the "family values" portion of the story, all the better. Such things can stimulate invaluable contemplation of long-held beliefs and discussion. (Going to get seriously OT here, but I vow not to make a habit of it.) I actually found myself involved in a thought-provoking discussion with a bisexual polyamorist (shares a committed relationship with two people--a man and a woman in this instance) recently...well, I was very inquisitive and she answered my queries with the utmost respect. The subject made me squirm a bit (I could never see myself in a relationship with more than one person--the jealousy factor!--and I have always had tremendous difficulty even considering such an arrangement as feasible), but now I feel a bit more enlightened and sympathetic towards those who are ridiculed for living outside the "family values" norm. So, my roundabout point here is that I think it's a good thing to be challenged, morally and intellectually, on a regular basis. Good for you for bringing up the subject! And I will share my story with you if you're seriously interested, but I promised myself I'd finish it before giving it up to constructive criticism (I come over all squeamish no matter if I receive praise or suggestions!), so give me a little while...I'm a sloooooooooooooow writer.

Have fun in Florida! Bring me home a tan! ;-)

Barbara the Wallpaper, ooh, that actually gave me chills.
Ella
- Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 21:55:48 (PDT)

Barbara, did you write that poem? It was really touching.
Chandra
Thank You, - Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 18:53:25 (PDT)

Mary Anne’s flat:

Mary Anne hurries to her door and flings it wide open . . .

Mistral stands framed in the entrance.

“Mary Anne.”

They stand looking at each other.

“May I come in?” Politely.

Mary Anne swallows, stepping back from the doorway. “Of course. I’m sorry. Come in, Mistral.”

“I hope I am not disturbing you.”

Mary Anne takes refuge in an old joke. “Too late. I’m already disturbed.” A wan smile, as she tightens the sash of her dressing gown and tucks the collar closer about her throat. “It sounds like a cliché to say ‘What a pleasant surprise,’ but it really is, to see you here.”

“Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood—“

Dainty and skeptical throat-clearing.

Mistral continues as though he had not heard. “I thought I’d look in on you. You didn’t seem quite yourself today.”

So he did notice. I wonder who else did? “I . . . wasn’t. It’s kind of you to be so concerned.” And just how “not myself” was I, that you’d make a special trip here to see me?

“I was just—“

Mistral is interrupted by a blast of electric guitar overlaid with clarinet as the stereo switches discs.

Wincing, Mary Anne scurries for the remote. “I thought I’d turned that down.”

“Who are they? It doesn’t seem quite your style, Mary Anne.”

She laughs, passing over a case. “I don’t listen to opera all the time.”

“Come now, Mary Anne-- Diseased Litter? This is supposed to be a musical group?”

She nods. “That’s their latest album. Sort of nouveau swing, I suppose you’d call it. It’s really first rate!”

Shaking his head, Mistral murmurs the album title. “Sick Puppies.” Deftly flipping the case in his long fingers, he looks over the list of tracks, still muttering under his breath. “ Back in the Doghouse of Love . . . A New Leash on Life . . . You Can Whack Me With the Paper (If You’ll Only Take Me Back) . . . Don’t Quibble, Kibble!” He passes back the case. “If this is first rate . . .”

“But you’ve hardly heard any of it! Give it a chance, why don’t you?” A warm smile. Teasing Mistral has restored a bit of her self-possession, and the prospect of his company is far from disagreeable, compared to being left alone with her thoughts. “Why don’t you have a seat? I was going to watch Minion’s interview in a little while; would you like to stay and watch with me?”

“Perhaps I’d better. I wouldn’t want him to give away any state secrets.”

A smirk. “He’s too terrified of The Interrogator. I was having some hot chocolate; would you like some?”

Mistral inclines his head in assent and smiles to himself as Mary Anne hurries away to the kitchen. What a comfort it is to be here, after all: in the home of a good friend who thoroughly understands the steps in that dance called friendship. She has known him long, likes him well, sees when to advance and when to retreat, and can gauge to the finest degree when concerned inquiry crosses over into prying. A relief, to let his guard down. Just a fraction.

And the music is turning out to be rather catchy, after all. Mistral hums a few phrases, tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa, then leans his head back and lets his eyes close.

Mary Anne pauses in the kitchen doorway, holding the pot of hot chocolate in one hand and an extra cup in the other, mentally titling the artwork before her: Mistral in Repose. Relaxed, but alert. He is clearly not asleep—even in that deceptively casual posture, there is an almost audible hum of energy about him that beckons her nearer to share his evident content at being just where he is at this moment. Troubles, today? Well, today is nearly over and tomorrow is not here, so . . .

He knows she is there, watching. She sees it, though he does not move.

Except to open his eyes.

Mary Anne looks into them for a moment, then smiles and moves forward, making quite the ritual of presenting Mistral his cup and pouring the steaming chocolate . . .

MA--a steamy scene, here . . . ;-)
Lee, we'll miss you! And thanks to Cindie for suggestions on the Diseased Litter album. , - Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 18:27:34 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

As she gazed at his window, she sent a silent and very private thought to him and moments later received a powerful response that caused her heart to gallop and adrenalin to surge through her veins. It was as if he had physically embraced her with his strong, loving arms, his familiar scent filling her senses and a warming sensation washed over her with lasting effects. She returned gratitude, before turning to climb the long hill back to the castle. With a trace of a smile on his lips he whispered “you are most welcome my love.”
lee
BTW, I am leaving for Florida on Friday, gone for ten days. I will TRY to post, and read the GB. :), - Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 17:46:59 (PDT)

SPOILERS for Order of the Phoenix .

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AFTERWARDS

HARRY
My window is wide open to the sultry, summer air
Owls fly freely in and out, but I can't really care
The sun is setting in the west
Your star rises in the east
Again I'm left here, all alone,
The one thing I need least.

CHORUS:
Tell my mum I remember her
Tell Dad I know his voice
Tell them I don't cause much trouble
Unless I have no choice.
Tell them that I miss them
Despite how hard I try
And tell them that I miss you, too --
Why did you have to die?

ALBUS
My heart has been torn open, I know myself a fool
To put one boy above a world, a country and a school
And now his grief is on my head
A death is on my hands
One more bright soul has slipped away
To undiscovered lands.

CHORUS:
Tell them that he's serious
Tell them that he can laugh
Tell them he has good friendships
And he's well-liked by the staff.
Tell them that we miss them
We're forever in their debt
And tell them that I miss you, too --
And never shall forget.

REMUS
I always was the cautious one, the one who played it safe
I always knew restrictions, they didn't make me chafe
But you were like a comet
That blazes bright and free
Trailing flame and glory before
Plunging to the sea.

CHORUS:
Tell Lily that we love him
Tell James how well he flies
Tell Lily how he looks like James
Except he has her eyes.
Tell them that we miss them
In this time of fear and dread
And tell them that I miss you, too --
Damn you, for being dead.

HARRY
I want the shining dreams I had a scarce 2 years before
A world of grief and loneliness with a crumb of hope for more
But now my dreams have turned to ash
And none can tell me why
This prophecy fell upon me:
To murder or to die.

CHORUS: Tell my mum I remember her
Tell Dad I know his voice
Tell them I don't cause much trouble
Unless I have no choice.
Tell them that I miss them
Despite how hard I try
And tell them that I miss you, too --
Why did you have to die?

ALBUS
In trying to protect one boy, I made him stand alone
To undertake the burdens meant for a man full-grown.
In trying to save one man's life
I put him back in jail
And in one boy's raging tears
I see how much I failed.

CHORUS:
Tell them that he's serious
Tell them that he can laugh
Tell them he has good friendships
And he's well-liked by the staff.
Tell them that we miss them
We're forever in their debt
And tell them that I miss you, too --
And never shall forget.

REMUS
I see the Dog Star overhead and it sparkles bright and cold
When did I get so weary; when did I get so old?
My hopes and dreams have vanished
Pushed beyond the pale
But shall I see you once again
When I pass through the veil?

CHORUS:
Tell Lily that we love him
Tell James how well he flies
Tell Lily how he looks like James
Except he has her eyes.
Tell them that we miss them
In this time of fear and dread
And tell them that I miss you, too --
Damn you, for being dead.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
So depressing that I had to share...., - Tuesday, July 08, 2003 at 17:06:09 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

lee
Thank you Ella, great to hear from you! I would love to read your story sometime. I can tell you that Professor Dumbledore doesn’t take her literally today, but is VERY concerned. CdC, yes, this prickly subject is indeed a “kettle of worms” to quote a friend. That’s why I brought it up. LOL Professor Dumbledore is not making a moral judgment of any kind; he is referring only to the curse. Thanks for the feedback, and read on to see how they deal with “family values.” I hope you like it. :), - Monday, July 07, 2003 at 17:11:14 (PDT)

Lee: Whenever someone mentions "family values" I always hold my breath waiting to hear which particular family values they are referring to. Should be interesting to see how this is answered in your story.
Carolyn, dear Carolyn
- Monday, July 07, 2003 at 11:36:52 (PDT)

Lee, superb job! I just wanted to mention that I've been scribbling a little Severus Snape story (not published to the net) and have, also, compared Dumbledore to a tree...I thought it was wild to read that in your story today! Great minds think alike, no? :-)

P.S. Please tell me Trelawney's ominous prognostications are the standard gobbledegook and that passage was *not* a bit of foreshadowing :-o
Ella
- Monday, July 07, 2003 at 08:48:41 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE Monday

lee
Welcome Janine, Thanks!, - Sunday, July 06, 2003 at 19:57:10 (PDT)

Sigh.. thank you Lee.
Janine
- Sunday, July 06, 2003 at 00:18:03 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Weekend

lee
Too funny Pam!, - Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 20:35:24 (PDT)

The sun was shining on this fine summer day, a welcoming site to anyone. Jamie, a honey-haired, cello-playing man that we know all too well, was on his way to the world famous Wimbledon tennis match at the entertainment center. As his car sped along the highway, he pulled down his visor to block the sun from blinding his eyes.

He had been driving for a while and finally had arrived on the street in front of the entrance. Cars lined the street and pedestrians crossed here and there to enter the stadium. Jamie scanned the road looking for a spare space. Finding none, he turned into the car park and drove around for five minutes until he found a free spot at the very back. He pulled his small red car in between a silver convertible and an emerald two-door station wagon. He turned the engine off, stepped out, and locked his car as he went.

God it's hot- but what a day to watch a tennis match!

He made his way across the busy car park, jumped to the left to avoid being run over by a car full of loud, rowdy men, and headed toward the court stadium.

He entered the building and pushed his single ticket through the machine before heading down the hallway with what seemed like fifty million other people and out into the sunshine and the arena. He walked over to a concession stand to his right and purchased a bottle of water and a packet of plain baked potato chips.

His seat was in the middle of the right wing section and he made his way to it slowly, sidling past a large family arguing over their food. The match was due to start any minute and, with excitement mounting inside him, he found seat number 57 on row 46 and plopped down upon the plastic chair.

The crowd erupted into a mass of cheers as a fit young blonde jogged out onto the court, waving his racket over his head. From the other side his opponent, a much taller brunette, came striding out, chest puffed and muscles flexing. Both shot dirty looks to the other player as the audience screamed, waved, and whistled.

"And THANK you ladies and gentlemen one and all... what a LOVELY day for a match here at Wimbledon. Please take your seats, for we are about to beginnnnnnn....::

Jamie sat back in his seat, ready for the action. These were his two favorite tennis players, and he had waited for this day for two whole months.

"What a SHOW it will be, what a SHOW!!! Fillird is getting warmed up we see... he seems to be the ladies favorite... ooh, and Klapton is changing rackets, apparently he didn't like the other one…"

"Hey, SHOVE OFF! I'm walking here!"

"Cleese mate, think you've had a bit too much to drink."

"Drink? DRINK??? I HAVEN'T DRUNK A SINGLE BLOODY BOTTLE! NOW FOR GOD SAKE'S YOU WOMAN, MOVE YOUR FEET!"

Jamie whipped around, angry at the loud intrusion, to stare at three men making their way to their seats.

"Oh shut up the pair of you!" The shortest of the men tried to calm them both down. "The match has started."

Jamie, glad there was someone to control the other two, turned back quickly to watch the match.

The man in the middle, second tallest, a blond, sniffed the air and smiled warmly. "What a beaut of a day for a match, aye Palin? Aye Cleese?" He took his own seat.

"Mmm…" Palin muttered, shielding his eyes from the scorching sun.

"I don't give a bloody damn about the day... I want to see some ACTION!!! YOU HERE THAT??? ACTION YOU FOOLS!!!"

The blond leaned over to Palin and whispered into his ear. "What did you feed him for breakfast?!?!"

"Oh the usual, just green eggs and spam."

"Bloody herr."

"Well folks, it looks like things are getting heated up now... Fillird is to serve first... and there he goes!!!!"

"Come on Fillird, put your back into it!!!" shouted Idle, the name of our blond fellow.

"Oh dear... looks like a bad turn for Fillird, poor mate. Point up for Klapton!"

"Come on Klapton!" Jamie encourages more to himself than the actual player.

"YOU YELLOW BELLIED BASTARD!!! YOU PUFFTER! YOU SAVAGE, WHINING IDJIT!!! YOU SWING THE RACKET, NOT JUMP WITH IT!!!" Cleese had leapt to his feet, eyes wide and bulging as he shook a fist at Fillird. Jamie sprung up out of his seat as well, completely startled by the outburst. He gave the trio a dirty look before sitting back down.

Idle rolled his eyes dramatically. "Michael, did you HAVE to feed him the spam?"

"I couldn’t help it, I was out of Norwegian veal substitute," Palin remarks sheepishly. Idle tugged on Cleese and he finally replaced himself in his seat after a few more good rants and raves. The crowd around them shot dirty looks as evil as the devil's glare.

If they don't shut up, I'll end up with a heart attack Jamie thought, hoping the match would speed up as the players got into the swing of things.

"Point to Fillird... I do say, THAT was a much better of a serve... here comes another one... THAT ALMOST HIT HIM! Klapton just barely ducked being snapped in the mouth! Oh, what a dirty play!" Jamie winced as the ball clipped him. Ouch. The crowd turned to a mass of boos, minus one.

"GOOD SHOW MATE!!! PLAY IT ROUGH!! DO IT AGAIN, THAT SWINE, THAT GIT DESERVES IT!!! KICK HIS LITTLE A--"

"John, that's enough!"

"Would you calm down please?" An exasperated Jamie scowls at them. He then turns back, hoping he could begin to watch the game with somewhat quiet backdoor neighbors. No such luck.

"Look mate," Eric stared at Jamie, "we're doing the best we can. Didn't know we came here to be lectured!"

"Well maybe I wouldn't be annoyed if you'd calm down a bit, please," Jamie irritably responded.

"Calm down? It's a tennis match mate! You're supposed to participate. You know, like in fish racing competitions," the man called Palin retorted.

"And Fillird is winding up for the final serve... up goes the ball.... OOO NICE ONE!!!" Fillird fans cheered as Klapton lunged for the ball and fell, face first, into the court, missing it by a mile.

"Oh, now I've missed it," Jamie mutters and faces forward around to watch. "GOOD SHOW FILLARD!!! THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT MATE!!! YOU DON'T TAKE CRAP FROM ANYONE!!! SHOW THAT BITCH WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF!!! YEAH!!!"

Jamie couldn’t help it. Usually being quiet, his stamina cracks and he turns around. "Will you shut up? Maybe people don't like hearing you yell obscenities. Goodness!"

No one is longer paying attention to the happenings below. All eyes have flown to Jamie and the three disrupters behind him. Pupils widen, and people begin to point.

"Right, what's going on here?" A bobby came up from the sides, tipping his cap and looking stern.

"These here idiots are ruining the whole game!" An elderly lady with coke-bottle glasses pointed to Jamie, Cleese, Idle, and Palin.

"Wait, these men wont shut up and let me watch the game…" Jamie protested in vain.

"Yeah!" interrupted a man to the right to Jamie. "We can't even hear the bloody announcer!" People nod and murmur.

"Right, then I'm going to have to ask the lot of you to leave."

"Oh come on mate, it's just a bit o' fun..."

"Ooo, ho ho ho, a bit o' fun is it? Well how does a jail cell sound? Still fun?"

Jamie sighs, relieved, thinking they would be gone.

"DON'T GET CHEEKY WITH ME, MR. PUFFED OUT POLICEMAN!!"

"RIGHT!!! All four of you, OUT, NOW!!!"

"Oh come on, I haven't even gotten me popcorn yet!" complains Idle, waving to the concession stand.

"The game's not halfway through." Palin joins in the argument.

"Finally, I'll be able to watch in peace… wait, did you say all four?" Jamie, astonished, stares at the policeman.

"Yeah you too Mr. Innocent, lift up your arse and move." Jamie stands up and makes to explain but the bobby silences him with a 'look.' He shifts his feet and moves off with the others, however, a lot quieter then any of the other three.

"Get your bloody hands off me, I'm not a criminal!" Palin yells.

"YOUR ARROGANT, IGNORRANT SLEEZEBAG!!! UNHAND ME YOU FIEND!!! WE'RE JUST WATCHING A BLOODY GAME IN THIS BLOODY CROWD AND I DON'T BLOODY WELL NEED YOU TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!!!"

"HERE HERE!!" Palin shouts.

The crowd stares and shake their heads. The game has been postponed for the moment.

"John, Michael, just shutup before you crap yourselves! It's not right to insult a policeman, even cruel ones."

"BLOODY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING GITS. CAN'T EVEN LET US HAVE A FUN TIME!" Palin does a double take. "Yeah, right. Sorry. Erhem… got carried away."

"Just move it along, move it along." The policeman (who has ignored all of the previous comments) hurriedly ushers the four out into the aisle, down the stairs, and out of the gates. "Don't come back again unless you can behave. People like you are an embarrassment to society." He spun on his heel and trotted off.

Jamie turns and looks at the group. "Well thanks for that. You got me kicked out for no reason."

Cleese just flailed his nostrils. "Well you could've just SHUT UP."

"ME? You were the raving lunatic in there!"

"You all could've just shut up..." Idle scratches the tip of his nose and stares into the sky as if he hasn't heard Jamie.

"And what law says we can't have fun? HMMM???!!" Palin growls.

Jamie gazes at the ground. "Wonder who'll win?" he mutters under his breath.

"Mmm... right, well, we're going to go to the studio."

"I don't want to go to the bleeding studio... I want to watch the game."

"What studio?" Jamie questioned.

"Well we can't watch the damned game, so it's onto plan B..." Eric thrust a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a heading in big bold letters: FLIGHTS OF FANCY- CASTING CALLS.

"Flights of Fancy?" Jamie utters. His mind begins to swirl as visions and pictures of memories long ago float back to him. "I've been there before, long time ago. Nice place."

"You have?" Eric cocks his head.

"What?"

"Mr. Bignose here says he knows the studio."

"Ohh."

"You wouldn't happen to know where it is, do yah?"

"Might," Jamie states airily, almost as if in a trance.

"Could you show us the way mate? We're not that good with directions. Right, John?"

"Right, right." Cleese seemed to be very interested in his shoelace.

"Perhaps. I wouldn't mind a little something to do… These days are pretty boring… I do miss the adventure it had about it…" He looks up at the trio with one eyebrow raised.

"Oui, you aren't thinking of actually going BACK to the place, now are you? I mean, well, bloody herr, would be nice to stick with a fella who's been around a bit, know what I mean, know what I mean?" Jamie frowns as the man nudges him.

"Yes." Jamie moves a small step away from him. "Well then, lets go now."

"Erhem... think we should introduce ourselves… I'm Idle by the way, Eric Idle. This here's Bruce, and that's Bruce... no sorry, just teasing you mate." Eric laughed at the look on Jamie's face. "The tall, rude, loud one is John Cleese, and over thataways is Michael Palin. Got it? And whom are we going to be obliged to?"

"Got it. And the name's Jamie Miller. Um… nice to meet you all."

"Right, same here." Eric smiled as John hiccuped and became overly fascinated by the cufflink on his sleeve.

"Well you lead we follow..." murmured a now almost-silent Michael

. "I'm in the small red car up there." Jamie pointed to the very back of the lot. He started to walk off towards it thinking that the day might not be totally wasted after all.

Diane and Dani <mailto:snapescauldron@aol.com%20and%20missdanissnape@aol.com>
Ok, here we go! We apologize if there is any past tense/present tense confusion... ack... but read and enjoy! :D, - Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 17:15:08 (PDT)

"I'm sorry. I just can't do it." The amazingly beautiful blonde tossed the bound pages of the script down in front of her. "He's throwing her out of the castle and they're supposed to have a love scene? No way."

The writers exchanged helpless glances amongst themselves. The director cleared his throat and leaned across the conference table. "Joya, we're due for a love scene. The public wants to see it. It gives us a respite from the action before the king arrives at the castle." He turned his head and regarded the only other person in the room. "And unless I am much mistaken, George is looking forward to it."

The shaggy-haired man smiled but said nothing.

The director turned back. "While I respect your artistic scruples, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you do the scene."

Joya pouted and shrugged her shoulders in an exaggerated huff. It was a sight that could make strong men weak. "Very well. I'll do it. But it's still not logical in the context of the script."

"We'll leave that to the writers to work out. That's their job." The director stood up and the other employees leapt to their feet as well. "Now then, let's get back to work." They filed out the door, leaving the two actors behind. The door shut softly behind them.

The man looked at his colleague in silence, as always admiring the view. He would never forget the day he met her. Driving through the Cotswalds country in a rental car on the way back to London, he'd become aware of motor trouble and pulled over to the side of the road. He knew nothing of the interiors of cars and had stood fuming in frustration at the uncooperative vehicle until the sound of an approaching motorcycle penetrated his mood. He'd expected to find an ordinary citizen who would be overwhelmed with his celebrity and anxious to help; instead he'd met a magnificent blonde goddess in dusty black leather with long legs and huge blue eyes.

She'd taken in the situation with one glance and taken over immediately. First a cell phone call to the garage in the nearest village to arrange for the car to be picked up and then he'd found himself on the back of her vehicle speeding down the road. She talked vaguely of staying at a country house for the weekend but he'd not been prepared for the Georgian mansion set in its own parkland. A chauffeur had departed immediately to retrieve his luggage. A rather intimidating housekeeper appeared to inform him that his room was being made ready for him and that an evening meal would be served at his convenience. The whole thing had made his head spin.

But by the time his luggage had arrived and he'd had a chance to shower and change, he was in control of his faculties again. She was incredible. He had to have her. She'd disappeared almost as soon as they'd arrive but if he had to search every room he'd find her again. But it proved to be unnecessary. The housekeeper had met him at the bottom of the stairs and escorted him to a private parlor where a cold meal awaited him with two bottles of fine wine.

And two glasses.

As he looked around the room the door opened again and the blonde goddess entered. They stared at each other for long moments. Then she shut the door firmly.

And locked it.

It had been almost a full month before he got back to London.

They'd made the trip together, cuddling in the back seat of a chauffeur-driven limousine. He knew her name and that she owned the motorcycle but not much else about her. She'd spoken vaguely of a largish family but didn't elaborate on what she did for a living. He had no idea who owned the limousine and the country house. A coy smile and a gentle kiss had deflected every question he'd asked, no matter how subtly. Somehow he'd known that the servants would not respond well to requests for information and so he hadn't asked any of them.

She'd dropped him off at his flat and bid him a passionate farewell as the chauffeur carried his luggage into the building. The last sight he had was of her blowing kisses at him through the rear window of the car as it sped away into the darkening evening. He couldn't remember going inside or using the elevator or unlocking the door to his flat.

The next morning he'd called a detective agency and put them on her trail. The only information he had was the license number of her motorcycle and her name. He prayed it was enough. The waiting period was sheer torture and every time the phone rang he'd leaped at it like a crazed panther. Finally the detective called back with an address. To his delight he recognized the building as one that was owned by the same individual who owned the one he lived in. So pleased was he that it wasn't until much later that he remembered the uncertainty in the man's voice as he urged caution in using the information.

He called for a cab immediately. His plan was already prepared. He would simply go around to the building agent's office and intimidate them into giving them an extra key to her flat. He was a major celebrity, it gave the building a certain cache to have him as a tenant and he knew the magnetic effect that fame exercised over regular people with boring jobs. He'd be in her flat by lunchtime, give or take a few minutes, and she'd be powerless to get him out again.

But things hadn't quite worked out that way.

The building agent employees had not appreciated the request and he'd spent quite a bit of the morning frantically persuading them not to evict him. Then he'd been escorted off the premises in a manner reminiscent of a felon being dragged to his execution. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a door slam with quite that degree of finality.

By the time he got back to his flat, his always-uncertain mood was not happy. But worse news awaited him there. The detective had sent around his written report. He tore open the envelope and began reading, then tottered across the room to a chair as the information sank in. He read it through twice, then sagged back in his seat and stared slack-jawed at the ceiling.

She was the granddaughter of a duke. Her family owned the country house in the Cotswalds and eight others scattered around the country as well as winter homes in Tuscany and the south of France. She'd attended the best schools and acquired the best education money could buy, finishing up with two years in Switzerland. She was independently wealthy and in the past year alone had bankrolled three theatre productions, two art exhibits, more than a dozen charity galas and several museum displays. She didn't have a job but was well known in the arts community as a generous patron.

And her uncle was the individual who owned their respective buildings and was their mutual landlord. It was a miracle he had made it out of the office without being arrested.

Professional concerns had intruded and he'd gone off to a pre-production meeting that he'd barely been sentient for. He'd waved away invitations to lift a pint at a local pub and made his way back home in the twilight. He kicked himself for being a precipitate fool, for not finding an opportunity to approach her at one of her charity events or even directly. No doubt the building agent employees would tell her uncle about his request and he might find himself evicted without notice. He hoped fervently that the man would not see fit to tell his niece about it.

The rain was just starting as he turned the corner into his street. He hunched his shoulders against the damp as he let himself into the building. There were other people in the elevator but he ignored them and didn't respond to their nodded farewells as he got off at his floor. He'd walked down the hall knowing that his flat would be dark and cheerless when he got there and wondering if it wouldn't be a good idea just to stay in a hotel that night and order a meal from room service. At least the waiters would be company for a while.

And then he'd reached his door.

Which was already standing open.

And inside he could see the fire blazing cheerfully and the small round table in front of it that was set for two people.

And the bottles of champagne that lay in an ice bucket.

And the beautiful woman reclining on the divan wearing an over-sized man's shirt and very little else except for a warm smile.

And holding up a key marked with a building agency tag on it.

He'd been rooted to the spot for what seemed an eternity and then he'd shot through the door in one powerful dive. Much, much later (in fact, technically the next calendar day), she'd given him an extra key to her flat so he'd have one too.

And now they were alone in this boardroom, and they had to do a love scene and she wasn't sure it was appropriate. He stood up and slowly made his way to her side...

Magda
Anyone every wonder how George met Joya in the first place?, - Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 12:03:38 (PDT)

Great Dixter is a wonderful garden and house that has been in Christopher LLoyd's family since the early 1900's. the house was once a manor from the twelth century and was rebuilt for his parents by Edward Lutyens the famous architect. Christopher LLoyd is one of our famous gardeners known for his adventurous ways with colour in the garden. He is 83 and a wonderful old man.
Gissing's Girl
- Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 11:58:21 (PDT)

Hi there! Lonely bob the coolest .
rob <rob@mail.ru>
- Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 08:55:06 (PDT)

ACC-Hi What is Great Dixter? I thought Christopher Lloyd (the guy from Taxi back to the Future and a few bits of Star Trek and a great writer) was American..or do you mean someone else or have I got it wrong? P.S. Happy safe party-ing people.
Janine
- Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 06:03:42 (PDT)

I was at Great Dixter one July 4th, and Christopher Lloyd told me that Britain celebrates the 4th of July too-he was too polite to explain any further, but he did have a twinkle in his eye.
ACC
- Saturday, July 05, 2003 at 02:10:30 (PDT)

Hey!

I just wanted to wish everyone (well, any Americans here!) a happy Fourth of July! Strawberry shortcake to go with your drinks and fireworks, anyone? Yum.
Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
Beware of barbeques. And keep your eye out for my first new post!!! :D, - Friday, July 04, 2003 at 20:31:08 (PDT)

FoF Offices
Afternoon of Day Eight of the Investigation

Barbara yawned widely, her jaw cracking. Karl-Wilhelm's eye twitched at the sound.

"Sorry," she muttered.

Karl-Wilhelm Schwarz, the Head of Set Construction, shrugged and pointed a blunt finger at the set plans for what Barbara privately called The Ides of Mistral. It had been, from the start, her own private boogeyman. "This won't work," he grumbled. "Not within budget. The load requirement for this beam means we'd have to use Glu-Lams. We'd need a crane for one that long."

"Glu-Lams?" She frowned, thinking of the heavy processed wood beams. She peered at the set plans.

"Your maths are wrong."

"I never --" she did a swift recalculatioin. Crap. "No, you're right. I screwed up. Damn." Barbara sighed. "Give me 30 minutes and I can work up an alternative."

"No."

"What?"

"Too many hands here, working already. We worked out an answer before I came up here." He flipped the plans over to reveal a rough pencil sketch. "Beams here and here would relieve the load. Going to play havoc with the exits, though."

"So the Director needs to know." Barbara looked up at Karl-Wilhelm's florid face. "Or has he seen this already?"

"No."

She sighed. "I'll go get sign-off for it, then."

"You don't have to--"

"No, it's my error. The Director needs to know it's not your mistake."

Karl-Wilhelm shrugged. "Your _ss."

Barbara grimaced. "My head, at least."

"If you're lucky, you won't have one up the other."

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

Barbara fetched up at Cindie's desk. "Is he in?" she asked, her chin lifting to the Director's closed door. Cindie nodded. "Busy?" Cindie shook her head. Barbara sighed, stepped up to the door and rapped on it gently.

"Come."

Barbara opened the door to the Director's raised brows. She held up the rolled-up set plans. "We need to do a changed in the design; the single beam design requires a Glu-Lam -- completely out of budget for us. Karl-Wilhelm came up with a cheaper alternative --" she flipped the paper over "--which will work. This will change things on your end a bit, with marks and exits, because the wide opening here has been narrowed to accommodate these intermediate support beams."

The Director looked up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. "You miscalculated the load, didn't you?"

Damn. "Yes, sir, I did," she said stoically.

"I see." He scrawled a messing approving date and signature. "Don't let it happen again," he said evenly.

"No, sir."

"Good day."

"Good day, sir." She left the room and closed the door behind her. Dammit, Phil, she thought, you've messed up my work, too. You've messed up everything.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Happy 4th, everyone!, - Friday, July 04, 2003 at 07:49:26 (PDT)

You are so interestig :) I do nat speak your language well, but you so funny :) 10x
Pregnancy <ipregnant@mail.ru>
Moscow, NJ Russia - Friday, July 04, 2003 at 02:26:37 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday, 4th July

lee
oh boy, we're in trouble now Janine, Snape's in a bad mood tonight...let the fireworks begin LOL, - Thursday, July 03, 2003 at 18:30:09 (PDT)

Sorry I mean readers
Janine
- Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 18:23:41 (PDT)

Ah Lee- What a nice little night cap you have given your reader. I bet there is going to be an appreciative smile on many a partners face tonight. lol.
Janine
- Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 18:23:04 (PDT)

Police Station
Morning of Day Nine of the Investigation

Detective Miles Graff bounced into the office he shared with his partner. She looked at him, disgusted, over the rim of her cobalt blue coffee mug.

"Well?" she asked.

"Old Judge Barry was more than pleased to sign a number of search warrants for us last night," he said.

"You had to ask Greg Barry?"

Graff nodded and grinned.

"And he actually gave us warrants?" She put her mug down on her desk with a light thump. "Is he ill?"

Graff laughed. Then he sobered. "If we get them on kidnapping -- that's a federal charge. We'll lose the case."

Silvert nodded. "True." She picked up the mug and sipped.

"Could you stand the pain of wrapping this case up?"

Silvert snorted into her coffee. "I'll be more than happy to be shot of whole the damned thing -- and the damned actors, too."

Graff smirked and hopped up onto the table, sitting cross-legged and smiling. "Miles..."

"Yeah?"

"Judge Barry doesn't give warrants. Ever."

"He does now."

"How? Why?"

"He said we had enough evidence to convince him."

"But...." she lead on.

"You should have seen his face when he got to the part about the attempted abduction."

Silvert made a silent, puzzled face.

"I think he's a fan."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
the Investigation continues, - Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 17:58:32 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

lee
CdC, I could never kill off that gorgeous hunk of a man, but the clock is for sale in Connecticut, it is beautiful. I spared no expense when I furnished his house. LOL. The horse pic. was for Gwenevere, maybe he picked it up at a yard sale., - Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 17:29:06 (PDT)

Many thanks to the spam control unit.
Cindie
Where's Claudia? , - Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 17:11:53 (PDT)

Lee: if Snape dies in your story, can I have his clock?
Carolyn, dear Carolyn
- Wednesday, July 02, 2003 at 17:01:02 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
No, Word is fine. You just accidentally typed a period inside one of your closing italics tags.
D.o.C.

Oh for God's Sake-! First Spam, now me italicizing the book. *blushes* D.O.C, would you help me out? Could it be me writing in Word and then pasting here? Oh dear.
Rhys
- Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 19:04:45 (PDT)

I do feel like a warrior just for makin’ it through the day/. You know, sometimes you feel like a fighter cos you fight to keep the fighting away. - Alix Olson

-

“Whatcha doin’, Uri?”

Uriel was caught off-guard and jerked, looking downwards, before yawning and calming again. Tucking a strand of long hair behind her ear, she smiled down at the younger girl, at least two heads shorter than her, standing next to the barstool.

“Want ads. No matter what your free-thinking and inspiring fine arts teachers tell you, reading poetry and strumming guitars in a coffee shop is no way to make a living, Rufie,” she sighed, pushing back the thoughts of the certain angels back into her dark parts of her brain. The image of the young Rufus brought it up, her bright smile, and in a second split the story of her birth brought back Metatron. I will not think of him now, she scolded herself then, mentally winced. No. Not now. Not ever.

“Look me up a job too, please. Preferably something easy,” Rufus asked, sipping chocolate milkshake. Uriel felt a laugh ripple through her, crossing out another ad with her pen.

“You people have too much summer vacation. You should be helping your mother at home, rather than hanging out with me in a calm, non-Starbucks. And, no, I will not make you another free milkshake,” she told the blue haired girl who’s face fell. Then, relented. “But, you can make it yourself.” Don’t punish her because of him.

And then, another voice, No, not because of him. Because you wanted him to stay and you made him leave.

“Isn’t that the way it’s always been?” she mumbled to herself bitterly, then viciously scratched out another ad. Rufus looked up and blinked behind her glasses. “Nothing, sweetie.”

Besides, if he was going to come back, he would.

He has to, she told herself sardonically. You can’t very well say no to God, can you?

“She’s just like her mother, you know? Just give them a bit of a push and, there go the Scions on a mission. Though, I wonder if milkshakes count as crusades.”

Is my heart speeding up or just stopping? Human bodies. And inside, she cursed. She hated the way her heart flip flopped, hated the way her stupid human body began to sweat, goose pimple, her mouth going dry. All because of him. Not because he was an angel. Not because he carried the power of heaven.

Because he was...well, him.

“How does he know about Scions?” Rufus demanded, sounding slightly frantic, the milk from the carton spilling over onto the carton.

“Why would you say that? She’s just a child, Metatron,” Uriel said, but she didn’t really care. Anything to not talk about what happened the night before. She turned to him, caught his glance of pursed lips, dark eyes narrowed. Feeling her insides twist, she twisted her into a sweet smile and pulled her classified ads in front of her, not looking at him.

“Actually, Uriel, if mine and Serendipity’s counting has been correct, she should be oh, fifteen years, nine months and twenty-one days. Is that about right?” At the mention of her sister, Uriel almost dropped the classified ads.

“How do you know who I am?” The newest scion was immediately suspicious and Uriel allowed herself a small smirk, allowing the Sloane temper to take its course. Sure enough, the girl jumped the bar, grabbing Metatron’s collar between her small fists, almost half his size. “I’ll call my mom, I swear it. Uriel? Help?”

Lazily, she replied, “Don’t worry about it, Ruf. This is Metatron.” She brought the ads back up in time to see her hands let go of Metatron’s collar and eye him suspiciously.

“Good, now I have milk and sticky children hands to get out of my suit. Wonderful. And would you rather I let out my wings? Perhaps that would convince you?” Metatron said sourly and sat down at the bar.

“Don’t you dare,” Uriel called until she realized he was sitting next to her and had run his hand down the newspaper’s crease, leaving it smoking, until two halves came apart in her hands. Opening her eyes (albeit reluctantly), she stared back at him, trying to erase everything she’d been thinking off of her features. “Why did you come back?”

“I need to talk to you,” and then his velvety voice dropped an octave, low, almost a purr, running down her spine and seeping into the creases of her muscles, “Alone, if you would.” It was then she noticed the darkened spots on the left shoulder of his suit jacket and squinted.

“Rufus, I’m going into the back for a minute. You’re welcome to the ads.” She knew her voice was distracted, perhaps off-putting to the younger girl but at the moment, the darkened cloth was giving her worry and she began to walk into a door behind the bar, opening it with a key around her wrist and closing it behind the Metatron. She locked it and looked to him in the darkness.

“Little help?” A snap of his fingers and the candles that lay around the room burst into birth, giving them light.

“What is this place-? Oh,” he muttered, his eyes traveling to the mattress laying on the ground, the padlocks on the door. “Good to know you’ve been keeping busy.”

“Shove off. It’s not mine, I just use it.”

“I can see that,” he sneered back and he brought her eyes to hers, meeting blazing, angry flame in them, her lips pursed but slightly trembling.

“You really think I would do that? After…after you? And even if I wanted to, how could I? Christ, Metatron, I’m a muse. What do you think I’d do in here? I can’t very well inspire people in the middle of a bar, could I?” she spat back and tried to calm down, walking to the back of him and leaning up to the spot on his jacket.

“You’re not supposed to be doing that,” he semi-moaned, sounding petulant. But, she noted with a dark pleasure, he did sound relieved. She felt him tense up under her touched and that was when the scent hit her nostrils.

“What happened to you, Metatron? Why-why are you...bleeding?” she whispered, trying to pull off his jacket. Immediately his hand came up to hers and stilled it, before he turned and stared at her with haunted eyes, sad. “What-?” Pale, slender fingers engulfed her hands and she felt softness, warmth, then gasped.

“I’ve been pulling them off every hour. It’s harder to pull the bigger ones out, you know,” he laughed mirthlessly. Sitting in her palm were a large amount of feathers, three rather large, and the rest rather small. She shuddered at the caked blood shedding from their hardened tips.

“I suppose it is.”

“Then you know you have to come back. I didn’t know any other way to keep-to try-,” but he couldn’t find the words and she once again, slowly, tentatively went to his jacket and began to slide it off, as he gasped a bit.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” She let the dark cloth fall to the ground, and it revealed his dark green shirt, no breastplate, only a small medallion hanging onto his chest. “You-you have to take that off,” she barely managed, but he simply nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, before the large wings exploded from his back, taking the soft cloth with it and revealing his pale skin. A cut that sat on his shoulder was rapidly disappearing and she soon saw, as he quickly allowed his wings to fall limp, that it was instead bleeding from his wings.

I did this. Tears were trickling down her cheeks and he looked, alarmed, to her.

“No, don’t cry, Uriel, don’t cry, it’s not your fault, but I need you to come back,” he cupped her chin in his hand, turning it up to look at him. “Please.”

Breaking away, she sat down onto the mattress. “You always could deal with crying rather well, couldn’t you?”

He stayed standing, wings wrapped around his bare upper half. “Why won’t you come back?”

She reached out a hand to his, pulled him to the mattress. “I’ve spent every day pushing back every moment of this to a place where I couldn’t remember it and now you won’t? Metatron, I don’t know if I can do this to you-I don’t know if I can take it.”

He said nothing, but his eyes pleaded and she closed her eyes, opening them, realizing he was crouched in front of her, the feathers in his hands.

“I never wanted you to remember, Metatron. I would have stayed here forever. For you. But…” she let the sentence die and pulled him closer to her, putting one hand on his wing, guiding him to lie beside her on the mattress. She lay beside him, fully clothed, hand still on his wing, and placed a hand to his temple.

Long lashes closed over his eyes and she took a deep breath. “You know why Muses never had breastplates, Voice? Because we were not meant to be warriors. We were not meant to die.” Her back arched, she inhaled sharply, and pulled him in.

-
Rhys <RhymeswO@yahoo.com>
Sorry I haven't posted in ages! I hope these next bits make up for it. :) The RenFaire by me has Robin Hood and his merry men, but sadly, no sighting of George... *sigh*, - Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 19:02:09 (PDT)

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: wEDNESDAY

lee
- Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 18:01:04 (PDT)

All the spam seems to have to number 513 in common, maybe there is some way if the webmistress has the tools from the host - to block this. I didn't find anything either on the Michael Moore thing - but the "Wanted" thing is real (GB)- it looks like AR is the Narrator?
Chandra
spam, spam, spam, whew....it's really exhausting...spam,spam,, - Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 13:59:25 (PDT)

Is there some way to block all this SPAM?
ACC
- Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 12:54:33 (PDT)

Thank you Fausta. I cannot see Rickman letting this happen either. He doesn't even want to write about his life, let alone have it filmed!
ACC
- Tuesday, July 01, 2003 at 12:53:33 (PDT)

Hi all
I was just told you guys were looking for me.

I just read Juan's entry. The supposed article reads,

Newspaper article published by the United Artists Office in Madrid
Film Director Captures Alan Rickman’s Life in his new film: Hollywood, Lights, Action, Rickman!

Madrid. Both critics and the audience have been pleasantly surprised by the subject of Michael Moore’s new documentary. The film, An Ordinary Life tells the personal story of what Michael Moore considers an average sort of Joe. However, as the film goes on we realize that Rickman is not ordinary. As we follow him day by day in his daily life and we admire his strength of character, we learn that Rickman doesn’t realize the extraordinary nature of his own life and lives it completely naturally.

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