phinnia: smiling dolphin face (fallen angel)
Because she asked. And because Anneka, for some reason, reminds me of her.

He had a thousand memories of Anneka, all melted together into one long flash-fiction-filmstrip of frozen imagery; Anneka as the so-called demure Miss van Slaant, a pencil between her teeth and a mischevous glint in her eyes; Anneka drinking one of a hundred cups of chai, the steam twining around blonde streaks of hair. Anneka sleeping, face peaceful and serene, her hand curled just-slightly around the silver locket that fell between her breasts.
But mostly dancing.
On the weekends they would go out clubbing, and in the early hours of the evening he tried to keep up: but after a few hours he tired and fell aside, was ignored in favour of the primal, synthesized rhythms that thickly swirled around her feet like oil paints on a canvas. That was when she was most beautiful; his own perceptions half-fogged by sugared pineapple drinks and the sweat and funk of a thousand people between them, he still remembered her flowing, sensual body, the kiss of note and embrace of flashing lights.
He knew her secret. Perhaps better than anyone.
For her, dancing was foreplay and sex and afterglow all by itself. And it had never felt so delicious to be so wholly unnecessary.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
She goes through a thousand moods a day; a veritable Crayola fun-pack of emotion, every hour a new colour that blends into the last with hardly a flicker and the next with no complaint.
The dull sleep-hazed yellow-green of morning becomes an angry yellow-orange if the coffee's held up, threatening to become orange-red if the grey calm of tobacco isn't there to smooth the edges on her jangled nerves; an exotic multilayered rainbow boredom cocktail cultivates itself around late morning as she stalks around the apartment trailing cigarette smoke and lace, deciding the mark today's feathers are to make on the landscape. Warm tan coloured coffee saturates the palette; the colours pick up speed, become more vibrant as the day goes on. Brilliant greens and glittering purples, warm fleeting pink mixed with the calm serenity of blue - her eyes, the quick smile over her fruit plate, her favorite shoes; the lipsticked kiss of her mouth, the white-gold ring she turns around and around on her finger as she thinks, the opal within carrying its own rainbow. A thousand colours for a hundred thousand moments, refracted through the prism to show themselves and then back again into a single uncarved beam of light.
phinnia: it's a brain. in a skull. (brain)
Ross had left all of his old talismans behind when he fled the suburban dystopia of his youth. Plastic secret decoder rings and birth-year pennies didn't have quite the right mix of magic and alchemy he was looking for - necessary to embark on a clean and sanitized future run through the autoclaves of hope and distance and fudged truths. The perfect charm would find him in Boston. He was sure of it.

Actually it found him in New York, when he and Lisa had braved an early morning Amtrak train from Boston's South Station to New York Penn for Thanksgiving weekend and Macy's big Christmas parade. The first moment he stepped off the train to set foot on New York soil, he spotted something glittering under the fluorescent lights and bent to pick it up.
Continued. )
phinnia: it's a brain. in a skull. (brain)
(Corey is Ross's older sister, by about seven years.)

Corey was starting to wonder if getting a puppy wouldn't have been a better option than a little brother.

When her parents told her that she was going to have a brother or sister, she'd pretty much set her sights on the notion of a fair-haired angelic little girl (with ringlets, like Alice!) that would want to play dolls or tea party or dress-up or pretty princesses.

What she got was a red-faced little bundle of squalling noise with black fuzz on its head that either cried or slept or sucked on a bottle, and wouldn't let her feed it, either.

Mama said that if she waited, the baby would grow, and they could play together.
Continued. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(Because [ profile] agua_clara wanted to know how it turned out, and because I have a fairly clear idea, here you go. :-) Read the other one first. It makes more sense that way. I know I'm not linear as a general rule, but I'm making exceptions. And you can blame, or credit, [ profile] tallin for the puns.)

Lisa's new best friend on her floor (as of last week, that is) was also named Lisa, in a move fairly indicative of common naming trends of nearly twenty years ago. The other Lisa had encountered this problem all too frequently growing up in New York City and had taken to going by her last name in a last ditch effort to avoid being lost in a sea of endless Lisas. This was made particularly important to her after she'd hurt herself by jerking her head around and causing minor whiplash when someone shouted 'Lisa!' in sophomore year of high school - only to find out she was the wrong Lisa. So Mactavish was how she introduced herself, and Mactavish she was. That was just fine with Lisa. It eliminated confusion.
So this is, in part, a tale of two Lisas. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
This is a fleshing-out of the minisaga challenge from [ profile] non_plot, or part of it anyway - not the entire three years, but the beginnings.

The man at the front of the room was small and wizened and seemed to be preserved in a miasma of chalk dust, the stereotypical math professor if Lisa had ever seen one. He adjusted the mike nervously, his brief tap translating to a deafening pop when made large over the speaker system. She sighed and opened up her new notebook, chewing idly on the stem of her pencil and pushing a stray lock of short, mousebrown hair out of her face. It fell back again seconds after she tucked it behind her ear.
More ... )
phinnia: it's a brain. in a skull. (brain)
(Crossposted to [ profile] drabblemania: starshine).

Claire stared out the window at the rain. It was falling in sheets, thick and wet and miserable, and she hated it fiercely in the way eight-year-olds hate things that prevent them from having fun, like sick or rain or excessive heat indexes or stupid older brothers that sit around reading stupid books. Turning back to the room, she kicked one of her Barbies angrily. Watching Barbie fly through the air was fun, so she did it again.

Ross looked up with a start and rubbed his shin. "Angel, please don't abuse the only brother you have."

"I wanna go outside."

"I want a particle accelerator and an island full of women to do my bidding." he replied laconically, turning a page in his book. "We can't always get what we want, as the Rolling Stones would say."

"Why do you have to use such big stupid words?" she fumed, kicking another Barbie and knocking over the trash can.

"Claire, darling, stop that."
Continued ... )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
[ profile] daily15 word: back here. )

"Ah, Stephen." Ross replied expansively, leaning back against a tree. "I see you brought coffee. What a wonderful lackey you are. Isn't he a wonderful lackey, Allanna?"
"Thank you very much." Allanna smiled, ignoring Ross and taking the frozen berry drink she'd asked for out of Stephen's hand. "I appreciate that."
"Yes, Ross." Ross answered himself, since no one else had bothered to, "he is a wonderful lackey, you've trained him very well."
It's a little longish, not much. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(He's thinking about this, as it happens. Another experiment in voice/tone/style.)

Somewhere on a beach on a tiny nameless island in the middle of the South Pacific he sits, calm, cool, serene, his feet buried in the glimmering white sand and his eyes locked in that thousand-yard stare that was born with the daydreamer; sitting Buddhalike, with a sarong falling in batiked blue and golden folds over his knees and suntan oil shimmering off his shoulders, a mai tai cold and sweating droplets in his hand, drip, drip, drip, into the sand.
His mind is a thousand miles away; looking over the swells and fells of another ocean, colder, more tumultuous; he remembers her screaming, throwing things at him, the pain in her voice hidden but still visible, like the fish that moue and flock beneath the rippled bottom of a glass-bottom tour boat. He remembers screaming back, leaping to his own defenses, watching her run through the sand and then her knees buckle with pain, anger and hurt scattered to the wind.
His blood mingled with her blood that day, in a foolish impulse born of youth, of love. He fingers the pale scar on his palm and shifts, dark eyes falling, again, to the ocean, ears filled with waves and pounding blood. The sun falls below the horizon, and still he sits.
Sitting shiva for her.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
([ profile] non_plot challenge #4 - 'in sickness.')

Ross prided himself on never getting sick. He laughed in the face of germs. He ate dubious food frequently, deliberately french-kissed people with colds, hadn't had immunizations in years even despite his journeys to more contagious parts of the planet. The reason was simple, as he saw it. Germs feared him. They realized the awesome power of his immune system to defeat them sight unseen, and they surrendered at the gates rather than face being beaten into submission.
And how the mighty have fallen. Or something along those lines. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(See, I told you: it always works.)

Ross winced, bit his tongue to curb the usual stream of curses that stepping on a mysterious something would usually bring, and picked up the offending object with his toes.
It was a small and impractical looking shoe, in a dashing shade of Pepto-Bismol Pink.
"This is yours, darling." he commented mildly, handing it to the small girl sitting on the floor near the game consoles. "Or, well, Barbie's."
She looked up at him for a moment with the same intense-eyed gaze he saw when he looked in the mirror every morning and nodded, setting her short braids bobbing. "Thank you."
"Try not to leave it where your big brother can kill himself on it, please?" Ross retrieved a soda from the minifridge and sat down at the desk again, picking up the stack of papers he was grading.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the shuffle of papers and the tapping of plastic feet on parquet tiles the only sounds.
Claire looked up. "I wanna go to the park." she demanded.
"After I'm done here."
"I wanna go to the park." she insisted.
"Claire, love, I've got to finish this, and then we can go."
Her deep green eyes flashed at him. "I wanna go to the park now!"
As Ross watched, the Barbie that she was holding (by the legs, of course, projectile-style - Claire was never one to play with Barbies the way Mattel intended) seemed to fly towards him in slow-motion -
And then vanished.
Blinking, he ducked under the desk. When he poked his head out again, Barbie was an architectural installation - blank blue eyes staring back at him, up to her waist in drywall.
Ross stared at Barbie, and then at his little sister, and back at Barbie again. She had.
She had timeshifted Barbie.
She was six. Six.
"Would you like something for your headache, darling?" Ross cleared his throat and rummaged through his desk for a bottle of painkiller.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(Crossposted to [ profile] drabblemania. No one else was interested in this one (literally, they were all completely nonverbal), so I had to deviate from the Jack/Allanna theme. Oh well. It's not bad anyway.)

The knife was cool. She was acutely aware of the sensual metal curve - it was surprisingly light, the blunted steel edge cutting into her hand without breaking the skin, pinched between her first finger and thumb.
In front of her was the chosen target.
"Hands out." Ross whispered in her ear, his hands bracketing her waist. "Now pull the right one back, your hand behind your ear. Good. Now pull your arm back ... and snap your arm forward and let go of the knife. And don't hesitate."
The knife flew forward, a spinning arc ... then wobbled and fell to the floor with a clatter.
"You hesitated." he said mildly, walking across the room and picking up the knife. "I told you not to hesitate."
"Shut up." she glared at him, feeling the acidic burn of failure in her throat and hiding it behind the blue fire in her eyes. She snatched the knife from his hand again, snapped the blade forward - it flew toward the target in a swirl of metallic grey and stuck, point first, in the corkboard.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Very good."
"Of course it was." she retorted, stalking toward the corkboard and pulling the knife out with one smooth movement.
"Again." He sat down on the window seat and leaned back indolently, his dark eyes meeting her blue ones, a slight smile on his face. "Just pretend you're throwing it at me again."
Her face flushed slightly. She hadn't thought she was being so obvious.
Ross smirked, noticing her pink cheeks. "How do you plant dope?"
"How?" Anneka gritted her teeth slightly, hands out, trying to concentrate.
"Bury a blonde."
"Shut up!"
The knife flew through the air again, cutting the ripples of Ross's laughter in its path.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (string theory)
(A silly little piece: this is what happens if you watch too much Law and Order and spend too much time writing. It's not quite fanfic - it's more the kinds of games kids (and their extremely tolerant uncles) play. I thought I'd post it now: I mean, what with Briscoe leaving the show and all.)

"Uncle Stephen?"

Anthony poked Stephen with his toy fish experimentally. Uncle Stephen didn't move.

"Maybe he's dead." Audra stared at Stephen's prone body sprawled on the couch.

"Uncle Stephen can't die." Anthony replied confidently.

"Din't he say that uncle Wally would be the dead of him one day?"

Uncle Stephen had said that, Anthony reflected.
Doink doink. )
phinnia: it's a brain. in a skull. (brain)
This week's [ profile] non_plot challenge is 'The Lie'. And surprisingly enough this piece (which is reasonably short and brought to you by Allanna, Stephen and Ross) contains only one lie. If you're bored enough, try to find it. :-D

One sunny afternoon in a small Thai place in Chinatown... )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(I got serious chills up my spine writing this. *shudder*)

"Don't go in the mud." Corey instructed, hands on the hips of her pink bathing suit. She stood under the tree at a fair distance from the waters' edge; a sixteen year old still growing into her curves, dark hair cut into a bob and tucked under a wide pink straw hat that she thought was glamorous enough to counteract their mother's insistence that she wear a hat.
Ross stared at her, said nothing, and deliberately put a bare foot in the mud. It swallowed up his ankle with a delightful, satisfying squelch.
"I said don't go in the mud." Corey repeated bossily.
It's kinda long. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (oscillon)
A few notes on this one, a pretty decent flashback piece if I may say so.

Past-Ross is sharing an apartment with Allanna when she's in his neck of the woods, because she occasionally is ... but that's all - to his chagrin. Poor guy.
I know it doesn't make any sense that the day he lost Anneka would only be the second worst day of his life. But it is. I think the logic he has is that if the first bad day had never happened he never would have lost Anneka to begin with. Of course, he never would have found her either, and people keep telling him that, but he's very stunningly illogical at times, for someone with a brain the size of a planet.
Picture it ... Cincinatti Airport... )


Apr. 19th, 2004 12:07 pm
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (temporal chaos)
Another [ profile] non_plot challenge: this one's all about dialogue. So yeah, it's talky. It's supposed to be.
Some things are best handled over the phone. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
(Again, brought to you by the letter C and the wonderful [ profile] thenowhere ... )

The number of dimensions in standard string theory is ... ten ... eleven ... or twenty-six. Correct.
In M-theory, a string is ... a 1-brane. Correct.
Type I superstring theory ... is based on open and closed strings. Other superstring theories are ... unborn chicken voices in my head, What's that? I may be paranoid, but not an android ... what's that? I may be paranoid, but ...
Stephen looked up from his desk, gritting his teeth, feeling the acidic churning of his ulcer kicking in. "Oh great Lucifer?" he remarked, a hell of a lot more calmly than he actually felt.
"Yeah, what?" Ross was scattered, distracted, his attention ten different places at once, divided unequally between the paper he was skimming, the Ramune he was drinking, the video game he was playing, the instant messenger, the window into the garden, the phone, the language tapes that were murmuring quietly about purchasing things in Mandarin, and the sandwich he was eating. Peanut butter and mango, again; Stephen's nose caught a whiff of soapyfruit and grade school cafeteria.
"Can we listen to something else?"
"Yeah, sure."
Taking a deep and meant-to-be-cleansing breath, Stephen turned back to his papers.
Other superstring theories are ... based on oriented closed strings. Correct.
Type IIA superstring theory is distinct because ... you don't remember ... you don't remember ...
With a sudden sound that was something between a feral, exasperated scream and a banzai death yell, Stephen leapt out of his chair and across the desk, sending his coffee flying parts unknown, and shut off the damn CD player.
"Hold on a minute, Jacky, Stephen's having an episode, I'll have to call you back." Ross replied clinically to the other party he was talking to, hanging up the phone and giving Stephen his full attention for the first time in several hours, staring at him incredulously. "What was that all about? Your time of the month?"
"We have been listening to the same Radiohead album for the past six hours." Stephen replied exasperatedly, blind to the coffee that was spreading ever-wider across the confines of his desk, headed for the floor. "And every single time I ask you to change it, you say 'yeah sure' and go back to ... slacking, or whatever it is you're doing over there, playing Myst, or whatever it is. I almost wrote 'we hope that you choke' on one of these damn tests that we're supposed to be marking."
"All right, all right, I'll put something else on." Ross rolled his eyes, as if Stephen were the one being unreasonable, and started flipping through disks. "Do you have a preference, my premenstrual little proselyte?"
"No Radiohead."
"Fine, fine. The Cranberries." He spun another disk into the player and sat back down at his desk again. "I don't know what you've got your panties in a bunch about, my little lackey. It wasn't bothering me."
"It never bothers you. Nothing ever bothers you." Stephen replied grumpily. "I could set that pigsty of a desk of yours on fire and it wouldn't bother you. Until it interrupted your game of Myst."
"Pigsty nothing. I'm not the one with coffee everywhere." Ross commented reasonably.
Stephen looked down and began to swear sulphurously, throwing a spare t-shirt over the puddle to sop it up and ducking under the desk to get the stuff off the floor.
"I'd watch myself if I were you. If Jennifer catches you saying such things she'll cut you off for the next month, and you'll be even more cranky then." Ross smirked, tossing him a roll of paper towels.
"Oh, shut up." Stephen grumbled, wincing as cold coffee spattered a drumbeat on his head.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
Another [ profile] non_plot challenge: this one on powerlessness.
Ross is a little R.E.M. obsessed. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (string theory)
And now for something completely different - from the [ profile] non_plot challenge about fairy tales.
Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me a story and then I'll go to bed. )
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
The beach was bitterly cold and windy, and Anneka wasn't dressed for it at all. At all. Her hair whipped around her face, tangling; she kicked off her shoes, burying her feet into the wet, dark sand that was turning to mud. The water eddied around her toes, and she watched them clinically as they turned paler, almost blue with the cold. The last breaths of sun were just barely visible over the horizon.
He came up behind her then; she could hear him breathing, almost feel the warmth coming off of him spilling into the air. The heavy weight of his jacket was suddenly across her shoulders; the icy scent of Japanese cologne and leather filled her nose, the zipper was cold against her skin.
"We should go." Ross said softly after a moment.
"I don't want to."
"I know you don't. I don't either. But we should." He sighed. "Damnit. I hate being the responsible one."
She turned to face him, wind stinging her tear-filled eyes. "How the hell could you do this to me?"
He literally staggered back from that. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Things can never be the same now. I can't just go back there ... I can't just go back and pretend that nothing ever happened, wake up Monday morning and sit on the other side of the room and pretend that it's just Professor Matthews and Miss van Slaant again."
"It's not like it's going to be any easier for me, you know." he snapped. The wind picked up again, waves slapping the shore and spreading faint traces of white foam across the flattened sand. "I mean, I'm supposed to just forget all about everything? I'm supposed to just be happy with saying 'hi' in the morning and idle bullshit chatter after this weekend? It was hard enough not to just throw myself at you before. Now it's damn near impossible."
"Will you shut up?" she screamed into the wind. "All you talk about is you. What about me?"
"What about me?" he retorted.
They fell silent then. The wind howled lonely, whipping up spirals of saltwater. She started walking barefoot across the beach, pulling her feet out of the mini-quicklakes that had formed around them, striding away in some random direction. Pain sliced her instep, and she squealed, falling to her knees. The sand around her was reddening.
He was there again, all defiance and pain forgotten for the moment, holding her injured foot tenderly, kissing the white, sand-covered skin and leaving traces of mud across his lips. "Let me see it."
She winced as he splashed salty water across the wound, but said nothing, teeth clenched.
"Just a cut, angel." he murmured quietly. "Where's your shoes?"
"I have no idea." she confessed. "Somewhere."
Digging around in the sand, he found the culprit - a half-broken sand dollar wedged break-side-up in the muck - and fondled it for a moment, turning it around in his hands. Suddenly, he drew the sharp edge across his palm; redness oozed to the surface.
"Fuck the lot of them." he shook his head suddenly. "We can be discreet. If they don't like it they can goddamn fire me for all I care. And good riddance anyway."
"Weekends?" she murmured.
"Weekends. The occasional illicit evening. Summer. What we do on our own time is our own business." He broke the sand dollar in half again and handed part of it to her, putting the other half in the pocket of his jeans. "People that care won't talk. And people that talk, I don't care about."
She scrambled to her feet, slipping the sand dollar in her purse. "I ... I'm sorry."
"I am too." he murmured in her ear, standing up. "We'll leave in the morning. I - I don't want this weekend to end like this. Come on. Let's find your shoes, and eat, and spend one last night together."
"For a while." she corrected.
"For a while." he nodded. "Yes. Exactly that."


phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)

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