Who Do You Think I Am? (poem)
Feb
08
Who do you think I am? the daughter of pain
Once upon a time I knew my name
You think I am the monster in the night
And never asked who taught me how to fight (more…)
Like Rain on a Cemetery
Jun
13
It’ll be just like watching a dream.
Julia watched the stars go by, flying in the back of someone’s ship that wasn’t Spike’s.
The Falcon That Does Not Fly
Dec
01
The falcon flew.
Aseré looked up, her gaze catching on the silhouette above her, darkening over the crackly branches of naked, winter trees. The chill air rang with a fierce shriek, and the falcon plummeted toward the earth. (more…)
Reminisce
Apr
13
“Sometimes I miss it,” the woman said softly.
She was short and blonde. The man beside her was dark, tall, and quiet. About ten feet away, a rock wall stood roughly ten feet tall and ran nearly the length of the park.
On paper, she was Cate and he was Jason. Standing there remembering, she was Shield and he was Quake.
He stretched out his hand. The ground trembled but didn’t break.
She lifted her hand, then dropped it without releasing her power. This wasn’t their wall where they had trained as children. It couldn’t handle them.
“Sometimes.” She shrugged.
No Longer My Home
Feb
13
Brihdë could hardly wait to get her feet back off the ground. She tugged at the neck of her tunic, heavy with the small planet’s gravity and the weight of strangers staring at the silver sigil delicately threaded into the dark blue.
The Sword of Judith
Dec
24
When it first started, Judith wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or horrified. She was leaning toward horrified. First it was the city council members bringing their questions and ideas and disputes, as if they had not enough wisdom in their own heads to do their jobs; then it was the suitors. It was really the suitors that were the problem. Well, to be truthful, they were generally one and the same.
By the Numbers
Jun
04
Love is nowhere, Abigail Mortin thought to herself. If it were anywhere left, it would be right here with her husband she no longer knew how to relate to, but she couldn’t feel love when she looked up from her kneading dough at the tired middle-aged man frowning at the kitchen table over a newspaper.
David had been buried in work and statistics so long—just a few more months, he had always promised, and they’ll wrap up this project—but by the end of those eight years when David finally dragged himself out of numbers back into the real world, they had grown apart. He knew only numbers. Abigail could not share his love for them.
Paper rustled. She watched her husband stand and walk over to her, put one hand on her hand.
“Are your hands clean?” she sniffed, kneading with a little less vim.
“Teach me how to make bread,” David suddenly said softly.
Abigail glanced up in sharp surprise. “You’ve never been a baker,” she pointed out, perhaps a little harsher than was warranted.
But David pressed his hand a little more firmly onto hers. “Please.”
It surprised her, the quiet desperate pleading in that voice. She looked up at him, uncertain, more uncertain than she’d been when he took the job as City Statistician and buried himself in a deluge of work she simply couldn’t understand.
Perhaps— Perhaps.
Her heart and body softened, enough, and she nodded. Baking. She pulled out the numbered measuring cups and spoons she never used—always been taught with a pinch of this, a handful of that—but that he would understand. It was a start. It was enough.
Well Doing, Weary
Jun
04
The old preacher wearily settled his bones at last on a wooden pew, harder than the harsh land that had grown this church. Years had bent and burdened him, years of reaching out his once strong, now gnarled hands to a people with ears stiff from not hearing, mouths folded in grim lines, and jaws set each one against their neighbor.
Teller, Taker
Apr
30
Word came at dawn of the newly outfitted military station in Westerfields, that vast uninhabited territory between Glaston and Edyll, both kingdoms cities. A quick reconnaissance by interested parties (read: operatives) identified standard and, to them, quite familiar signs of Thorn Republic activity. Once upon a time, those operatives had been the source of those signs, and they knew their own, besides any other departments Thorn might tap to do their dirty work.
Battery Acid
Jan
16
Shift promised him pain when she took him in, promised him her protection, but also promised that it would change everything he was. She hadn’t mentioned nearly putting a knife in him and showing him she could break his neck with her bare hands. Justus was bone-weary by the time he left the training courts and stepped into the shower in his private quarters.
Charges
Mar
12
She should be afraid of him and what he can do.
With a cocky grin, he charges his cards and brings down his enemies in flashes of light. With a casual word, he charges a room with tension of one kind or another. He charges relationships, conversations, tempers.
He charges her.
With his skillful fingers, he sets her glowing and sparks in her stomach, her arms, her sides. The air grows hot with what’s going to be.
They won’t get the gloves off. They’re going to burn.
She should be afraid of him and what he can do.
She isn’t.
Touches
Mar
12
They seemed innocent at first.
Touching her on the shoulder to get her attention. Brushing past her in a crowded room. Making contact while training in the Danger Room. (How could anything in that room be innocent?)
They progressed.
Tracing her contours before she even noticed his closeness. Brushing a kiss across her knuckles while whispering, “You’re belle.” Pulling back her hair into a ponytail for her before a training session. (How could anything in that room be innocent?)
She’d catch the brightening of crimson eyes and catch her breath in anticipation.
Touches turned to whispers. Whispers turned to touch.
Glances
Mar
12
It started with glances.
The first time Rogue saw Remy LeBeau, he was leaning on the banister staring at Kitty with a cocky smirk. His red eyes drank in the smaller girl, almost undressing her, but not quite so brazen.
Rogue had been uninterested, but Remy glanced at her and blinked in surprise before continuing his conversation.
Since then, whenever she walks into the same room with him, he glances over, then returns to what he was doing.
If he would stare, she could brush him off. If he would leer, she could ignore him. But he doesn’t.
He glances.
Whispers
Mar
12
There’s something different about the way he whispers. Something different in those urgent whispers as he draws his hand from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Something different from the appreciative glances, lewd compliments, and in-your-face flirting he gives the other girls.
Something that makes her stop noticing when Bobby glances at Kitty. Stop staring at her boyfriend wistfully. Stop regretting the Cure.
Something that makes her blush every time that Remy looks at her. Something that lights a fire in her belly when he slides up behind her in some dark corner—and whispers.
Made to Dance
Mar
08
Caitlin smiled as her very large husband tried to teach their very tiny five-year-old daughter how to dance. He was leaning over, holding her hands, as she stumbled one way then the other in the living room.
Finally, little Robin flopped down with a pout. “I’m just not made to dance.”
Caitlin knelt next to her. “Do you like to dance?”
Robin scrunched up her nose in evident distaste.
Suddenly, Monster scooped her up and swung her around in his arms. Robin’s delighted peals of laughter rang out as he danced with her in the air.
“Look, Mommy! I’m flying!”
Robin was now a slender, serious ten-year-old with creamy golden skin and shiny black hair. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as Caitlin went over the waltz with her over and over again.
Finally, Robin sat down with a sigh. “I’ll never get this.”
Caitlin smiled. “Do you like to dance?”
“I’d like to fly,” Robin answered wistfully. She set her face and got up to dance again.
Monster held Caitlin close as they watched their daughter glide down the staircase into her cotillion. She joined her tall, handsome boyfriend in a waltz. Stately, smooth, perfect.
“I think she likes to dance,” Monster whispered into Caitlin’s ear.
“I never got to tell her the rest.”
Robin smiled up into the eyes of her date. Monster smiled down into Caitlin’s.
“I think she knows.”
To Burn
Mar
03
He burned a flush into her face from the first moment he saw her, danced her, claimed her mouth with his. His hands ignited an inferno beneath her skin that did not fade. She became his.
At four months, she didn’t want to look anywhere else. At six months, she couldn’t dare to.
But as much as Ramos talked about getting to the bottom line, he respected her more than she did. He never came to her place, and if looks could kill, she’d be dead every time she asked about going to his.
At eight months, she started flirting.
Danjou would dance her in her room and take her on the bed. His kisses didn’t light fires in her belly that would last for days or make her whole body ache with longing. But he could give her that. Kindling to Ramos’ flame.
Sometimes, she just really wanted to burn.