A Day in the Life

Writer's Block

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 08:12:06 GMT

A/N: Most of what you'll see right now was written in a span of five minutes, non-stop, and without much thinking. Or at least that's what I think.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as far as I perceive truly to be), I don’t. And that is why I have decided to go against what I would naturally be inclined to do—to step away from Microsoft Word—and just say what I think (if I think, that is the question) at the moment. Good thing my fingers can keep up.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as far as I perceive truly to be, because perhaps in every truth an element of fallacy stills exists), I don’t. And that is why I am writing this incoherent piece of boondoggle, or shit, or crap or whatever you want to call it, just so that I may prove my point.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as truthful as truly could be in a world full of falsities), I don’t. Or at least I think I don’t. I knew I was going to say something—but the very fact that my fingers can cope up with the pace of this, makes it unable to cope with all the ones that just fly through. And I don’t think I’m making much sense here.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as truthful as truly could be....I’m sure you already get the point), I’m still trying to recall what sort of moving thing I was going to include here. I type too fast; I’ve no time to think. And now I’m wondering whether I should permit myself to use the backspace tool. I’ve errored twice. And errored, according to the MS Document (or Word or what-have-you), does not even exist.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly, I don’t mean this. Which provides such an irony—such paradox—to think that all this time I’ve been saying that I don’t know what to write, and yet in such a short amount of time I’ve written…five paragraphs. Yes. So maybe I do know what to write, or I don’t, or who the hell cares. The point is: the life is sucked out of me.

I no longer feel the magic of pen on paper engulfing me with jubilance and exhilaration—or finger to keyboard, if you want me to be technically correct. The meaning of my words is gone. It is not art. I feel empty. And though I wrote more boondoggle—or shit or crap or whatever you want to call it—before, at least I felt happy. I didn’t worry about what people thought. I wrote shit, and wrote shit.

Hell, at least I wrote.

In the end, I truly don’t know. And there are no fallacies anymore. Or at least that’s my perception of it.

Graphics Post #4: AI7 Contestants, Analog Heart Lyrics

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 07:53:37 GMT

Because GIMP is highly addictive.

Contents:
[17] David Cook, Syesha Mercado, Jason Castro, Brooke White, Marly
[9] Analog Heart Lyrics
[1] ~~Renaldo Lapuz~~ RANDOM graphic! :D

Preview:

Don't forget!
1. Textless icons should not be used as bases unless you obtain permission.
2. Credit is hugely appreciated. When you do leave one, please tell me what you took just so that I know what appeals and what doesn't. (It'll also help me improve, no?) ♥
3. Credit to moonlitcrescent @ artplethora if you'll use.
4. Have fun...and thank you so much-ly! :D

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7	8	9

Believe it or not, I find this FOB rather amusing! XD

Graphics Post #3: American Idol (Majorly David Cook!)

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 14:25:19 GMT

I really should be doing my homework right now, but I haven't posted anything for artplethora yet so whatever! :D Here goes nothing:

Contents:

[ 2] Cookie and Archie icons
[8] Cookie icons
[1] Carly and Cookie Friends-Only Banner
[1] American Idol Friends-Only Banner

Total: 12 (I'm pathetic, I know.)

Teasers:

You know the rules, I'm sure. *wink*

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

Resources for textures in my profile page. Check out dafont.com for some cool fonts, too! :D

Graphics Post #2: Stock

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 02:17:36 GMT

Tada~! I learned a lot about GIMP this weekend. I'm still mezmerized at the wonders textures could do! :D I have a lot more to learn, but I just wanted to share this graphic I made! Take it if you want (click it to enlarge), but don't forget:

1. No hotlinking.
2. Comments are hugely appreciated, because I would love to know what appeals and what doesn't. ♥
3. Credit if you'll use.
4. Uhh...enjoy?

Note: I am an official artplethora artist now! The banner's in my profile. There is much rejoicing to be made. :)

CLICK TO ENLARGE. (Choose whichever size you want!)

Graphics Post #1: Detective Conan, Celebrity

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 08:15:55 GMT

WHAT?! I, of all people, am making an icon post? Well, actually, yes. Yes I am. I certainly don't claim to be good at it, and in fact I must say this set is quite...crappy. But anyway, in order to commemorate my now more-than-a-ficjournal-journal, I'm going to flaunt my skillz! Kidding. :P

In the huge (and I mean HUGE) off-chance that you'd like to claim any of these, please take note of the following:

1. No hotlinking.
2. Comments are hugely appreciated, because I would love to know what appeals and what doesn't. ♥
3. Credit if you'll use.
4. Uhh...enjoy?

Contents:
Detective Conan - 21 (I've actually posted this set before in my journal. It just got deleted.)
Random celebrities, including some Asians which are LOVE - 16
Total - 37 (not bad! XP)

And because I'm such a tease (yeah, right):

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

Note: All these were made using the cheap Serif PhotoPlus 6.0, except for 001 and 011 of the celeb batch, which was made amateurishly via the GIMP. XO

10 Fics: Shinichi and Ran (01: Distant Dreams - EDIT)

Mon, 26 May 2008 08:53:00 GMT

Title: Distant Dreams
Author: Moonlit Dawn
Fandom: Detective Conan
Characters: Kudo Shinichi/Mouri Ran
Genre: Angst/Romance
Prompt: From Table 2: #2- Passion
Word Count: 3,959
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild profanity; slightly suggestive themes
Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan. I only play god with them when Aoyama’s not looking.
Summary: It was her specialty to feign happiness.

She could never forget what transpired that fateful night, even after all these years. A lot of time had already elapsed then, from either before that or after. She lived her life and he lived his—alone, apart. She never clarified actually giving up on him, but presumably she had. Everything was just such a daze.

He came back, only to find that things were staggeringly different. That she did not greet him with open arms—though, perhaps, she had every reason not to. Nobody could wait for him forever—not when he himself was unsure of his return.

Time, especially, could not just sit and wait.

Strange—he looked more seventeen than thirty-odd. More where it all began than where it all started to end.

To crash and burn.

And yet she was old. Thirty-ish. Prim, demure, but relatively old nonetheless. With graying sacs under her eyes—like crescent moons; skin that somewhat started to sag; creases on her forehead; and stretch marks from painful childbirth concealed under layers of clothing.

Yet he recognized her at a moment’s glance, a woman amidst the crowds. It was her. It was her at last.

“…Ran…?”

She did not call him back. Just stood there, stiff as a pole, stiff as his tomb, and wondered why fate reunited them now. Just now. Just a little bit too late.

When she pushed him away she would then end up wondering, many times afterward, whether what she did was the right thing. Or whether it wasn’t. And guilt and regret would consume her each and every single time.

And really, was it? Was it her fault that this happened? Was it wrong?

Was it wrong that when he came and shook her world, she pushed him away from her and called him a parasite? Unwanted? Shouted loudly, as if to whole of Tokyo, that she was married? And with a child?

Maybe it was. Because then this wouldn’t have happened. They could be together now, at this moment, perhaps—happy and free. Not in the past, and not in the far-flung future with all its ambiguity. And when they tried to be it would have been success.

It would have been wrong, but she would have been happy.

She only shielded herself from sinning. Because when they met that dark Saturday night, amidst the people pacing the city streets and underneath a starlit nighttime sky, she could feel deep inside that she wanted him close to her. But what he felt she didn’t exactly know.

She wanted him close. Close to her hair. Close to her chest. Close to her heart. Close to her and to everything that was her life. Close enough to feel her tears of joy and sadness. Her tears that wanted to pour because he was there—he was back, after all that goddamn waiting. Her tears that wanted to pour because he arrived just a little bit too late.

Close enough to feel her wedding ring—two thin golden bands on her right ring finger. Studded with tiny diamonds, twinkling and expensive. Like stars shimmering on the nighttime sky.

Just close.

But things were different now, (commitments made, priorities altered) and so she pushed him away against her will. Into the crowd. Into the looming darkness. Into a swirling, twirling, dizzying abyss. Into god-knows-what-and-where.

Away from her and from everything else that formed her life.

And she ran away from him. Away from everything that she could ever ask for, everything that she ever wanted—him. Shielded herself from sinning and inflicted pain unto herself as she did. Unto both of them.

Only to prove that love was their Achilles’ Heel.

And before the silhouette disappeared into the darkness, amidst the cars and people in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, he asked why.

Why. A simple word that meant so many things.

Why let go. Why leave. Why push everything we had away.

She stopped in her tracks in thought. Why? What had she to answer to such a vague question? And anyway, why did she have to answer it anyway? As if she lost her voice—her voice with which she shouted at him many, many years ago during childhood—all she ever got to say was, ever softly as he approached her, “Because this isn’t right, Shinichi.”

Deep inside her other questions shrieked for answers, just as deep inside him they screamed. Loud and taunting. Almost scary.

Why now, for instance. Just now. Only now, when she was tied up and committed—when her ring was too tight to remove. Why only when they couldn’t be. Why.

This isn’t right.

And then she ran and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—run after her. His heart aching with pain and with grief.

This isn’t right.

Morality was something he fought for. And yes, it wasn’t right.

She tried to love him with all her might, and, for the most part, she succeeded. With all the strength that she could muster, she tried—but that was all. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t love the man, and she figured he might have known already. Maybe that’s why everything is such a complete wreck—absolutely everything.

She needed him and he needed her. It was a possessive, obsessive want. A thirst she couldn’t quench. As she worked on one task or another, he’d hug her from behind and nuzzle her ear aggressively, taking in the addictively tantalizing scent of a woman in bloom; and she’d push his hands away, asking him—no, demanding him—to stop. The same cycle, the same rut—all resorting to violence.

Black eyes and discontent. Threatening shadows of unease. A traumatized child, wailing.

“Mommy? Daddy?”

And dark, empty nights spent in silence.

They lay on the same bed but kept their distance, a pillow her only comfort. She’d stay awake for what seemed like an eternity, staring up at the ceiling. At the tiny dots that seemed to form as she strained her eyes—like tiny, tiny stars. And she’d close her eyes and think.

About this. About everything. This roller-coaster of a life.

She wondered how she could’ve fallen for him. Or if she did at all. She wondered why she let him inside her life. Why she said yes, when she might have easily said no. Just as she did to him.

No.

Only it would have been the other way around.

And she’d close her eyes, dreaming that he was him instead. The him that she loved, not the him with which she shared only false desire. The him that she regretted leaving on that dark Saturday night, not the him that she wished she never shared vows with in the first place, an over-jeweled June Bride—hair curled and face bronzed, all made up for doom.

Because then they can’t be together.

She would shut her eyes, lie gently down, and clutch her heart. Feel it throbbing, beating fast. Deeply resonating with unsaid affections. She’d grasp her skin tight, and wish, and she’d feel as if her heart would pop—explode, a mad volcano erupting after being so silent. And red hot lava would gush forth and flood the expanse with thoughts that were unsaid.

But it wouldn’t. And she would lie there, helpless, and wait for the day when all these finally unraveled themselves freely. A day she would probably have to wait for forever. Or, at least, until this lifetime resides and she is brought to the next—whatever it truly was and whether it existed at all.

Whoever believed in fairytales-on-earth should snap back to reality. Take a reality check.

Whoever said marriage meant happily-ever-after should be damned, she thought.

And she couldn’t believe she fell for it.

A mellow love song blended smoothly into the background, to which they kept cadence as they danced leisurely under the nighttime sky. Her hands were clasped behind his neck in an endearing embrace. His hands were on her waist. Overhead, the full moon was huge and round and bright. It resembled, in some ways, a father looking over his little children.

Huge. Round. Mysterious.

Fat and drunk.

There was a three-layer wedding cake, on top of which, a little girl in a white gown was being carried by an equally little boy in a tuxedo—a Lilliputian bride and groom, grinning. White roses were everywhere—and guests. Guests with happy, unquestioning faces. Her parents, reunited if only in that one moment.

Cheering on history to repeat itself.

Or at least, not realizing that it could.

She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His loving eyes tracing the contours of her body. His manly scent. The strength on his broad, muscular shoulders. His firm and wanting grasp on her waist. The fine black cloth of his tux. All full of promise and a better tomorrow.

She couldn’t remember how it all pieced together and came to be. Maybe she had had enough champagne, maybe not. Either way, what happened before this was just a quick and blurred and dim memory. All she seemed to recall was that they met one fated day at work…dated…got engaged…then married. With roses and cake and happy faces. Her approving parents. Lovely music. An expensive diamond ring that shimmered like stars on the nighttime sky. A decent man for a husband, who could dance with her in a way that he never could.

The particulars were blurred because all she could really think about was him. And perhaps in all her god forsaken daydreaming she had made such a terrible mistake, and absentmindedly agreed to commitment. Dreaming that he was asking her.

“…Will you marry me?”

Once he remarked about how she seemed to be looking far off into the distance, all the time.

“…Uhh-uhmm…of course!"

Maybe she saw him, maybe not.

She closed her eyes, thinking—whether in hope or disillusion—that she could feel bliss. Bliss. That surreal, angelic swoop that women always anticipated. It will come, it will come. It will! Sooner or later. But when?

He stooped in to kiss her.

Maybe now.

She halfheartedly kissed him back.

It was perfect, she forcibly thought. Absolute perfection. What is wrong with you? You’re married—it’s what every girl has ever dreamed of! And to a great man, nonetheless! You should be happy, you should be happy!

But she wasn’t.

“…Ran, you okay?”

She nodded thoughtlessly, stammering as she spoke. “…W-Why wouldn’t I be, hon’?” When she gazed at his sapphire eyes she saw quite definitely someone else in them.

Dreamy eyes, like the sea. Like his.

She had to shut her eyes and block it all out. This is wrong. This is wrong. It’s not him. It’s not him and it will never be! Her heart filled with remorse as she tricked herself into thinking that she didn’t make him suffer.

That she didn’t make herself suffer this joke. A grand magic trick in the show that is Life.

After a few drinks she’d get drunk and they would make love together, and even as he satisfied his manly needs he had to wonder. She always seemed to be looking far off into the distance, as if she could see right through his naked body and to the glittering diamond stars. And as their bodies brushed together he saw in her eyes not the remotest bit of passion….

But emptiness.

Whenever she’d wake up in the morning and realize what she did, in a way she couldn’t believe herself—how she easily slipped and offered her soul to a man she wasn’t looking for, though they were there for each other’s ecstasy. Everything slipped away too quickly for her to notice, and when she had she had gone much too far to turn back. Much too far.

Soon she gave birth to a bouncy baby boy and had to give up her work in the office, if only until he was bigger. He reminded her a lot of Conan, with his big blue eyes and tufts of black hair, and the way he smiled and giggled.

In a way, they were both like Conan’s oniisan, she thought with a smile. Like Shinichi—with his eyes and his hair, and the way he smirked and laughed. Only this little child hadn’t known him.

To be more precise, only this little child wasn’t him. Not that she knew.

Where were they, anyway?

It was almost unbelievable that they would meet again, usual as the unusual was. For days on end his appearance bothered her, but in a way filled her with a strange sense of hope—until she realized what she’d done. How she’d pushed him away to the void that was her Past in an attempt to forget. How she dismissed the idea of explaining himself.

How she let go of her only chance to be happy. His chance, too.

After all, he never said he loved her. He never asked for romance. He never asked to intrude on her married life, a third party, and make her sin—never ever. Right? What if—if friendship was all he ever wanted from her?—plain, simple, sinless friendship.

What if?

She’d never be able to live with herself, then.

Sighing, she looked out the windowpane, at the crisp, somber leaves that plummeted down the yellow autumn sky. At the seasons that came and went. She thought about her dilemma and reviewed it back and forth in her mind.

How could she have been so…presumptuous? All the time he hadn’t been there, she’d waited and waited, but now….

I let him go. I let him go. What now…? God, I am such a fool. I hate this….I hate this….

Maybe he still lives at—

The answering machine bleeped, and a familiar voice came through.

“Hello?”

“Uhm, hi. This is Ran. You called? Who am I speaking to?” she asked politely, barely moving from her spot beside the windowpane. The autumn leaves (red, brown, and yellow they were) waltzed downward with beautiful rhythm. She thought of herself as a leaf, freefalling slowly into the ground.

Light, but falling all the same.

“Well, this is—this is Shinichi’s mother. Yukiko-san?”

No wonder the voice seemed familiar. She was surprised.“Mm? How did you—” She could have sworn that none of the Kudos knew her number, much less where she lived. “But I didn’t give you my number, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. But that doesn’t matter. Listen, Ran, I have something important to tell you. You see…”

There was a considerably lengthy pause, as if she was trying to find the right words to say. What was so important? Ran had to wonder. Surely there wasn’t anything to say—for some reason, her contact with the Kudos long been severed. No explanations were needed, it just happened. So what had she to say, after all that?

She left her spot near the window and paced the room intently, phone on ear.

At last the voice spoke, faint and a little wobbly. “…He passed away.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Shinichi—he passed away. This morning.” She herself had a hard time accepting what she had said.

“…What?” Ran couldn’t believe what she just heard—was she deaf? Maybe she was dreaming. Or, better yet, maybe this was just some stupid prank call from some copycat nincompoop. Yes, a prank call. And whoever was speaking could mimic Yukiko’s voice very well. “You’re lying, aren’t you? Whoever you are, you’re lying. Stop it.”

“No, Ran—”

“Stop it!”

“Ran, I know you don’t believe me and even I have a hard time believing myself, but please listen. I just had to call you and…clear things—” Ran heard the voice frantically explain, and she was fuelled by a sudden indignation—a great contrast from her former sorry self.

“Clear what?! All of a sudden he disappears on me and then he comes back like some weird psycho on the loose, and then you tell me that he’s dead?! This is insane. Borderline insanity. Don’t expect me to believe…any of this junk!” She waved her free arm in gesture. “I shouldn’t even have bothered.”

“Listen, Ran, just listen. Please. I just wanted to let you know that—”

“That what? That Shinichi and Conan are the same and he’s been lying to me all along? What?!” Her voice was expectant.

Silence.

“No. Well, yes,” came the trembling echo of defeat. “Yes, actually. They—they are.”

This can’t be right. Tell me you aren’t serious!

“…That’s a lie. That’s a complete and stupid lie! Your family’s a bunch of conniving liars! This can’t be—this can’t be….” This time her voice wavered and lacked conviction. He lied to her? But…

“Ran, hear me out. Please. I know it sounds like total bull, but that’s the truth. Shinichi, Conan—they’re the same. Believe me. I know it’s hard…but please.”

“No. No. No. It can’t be. But—he lied to me? No. It can’t be. But Conan’s mother—”

“…Is me,” she admitted, then added apologetically, “I-I’m sorry.”

“But he lied to me? He lied to me all along? No way. He couldn’t.”

There was a long sigh. “Ran…he lied. Yes he did. But he lied to protect you. Don’t you see? He lied to protect you. All he wanted was for you to be happy and—”

“…Do you think that makes me happy? Huh?” It was more a statement than a question, but it was said so feebly that Yukiko barely took notice.

“He—he tried his best and he did what he could to keep you from danger and…god, it’s hard to explain. And then there was this antidote that got his real body back but left his heart weaker and…and, well…he saw you. Married. And seeing you married, well—he couldn’t be…happier….”

Silence.

“Then a stroke did him in.”

She could tell by the sound of her voice that Yukiko wasn’t happy. Not only because he passed away—to be sad about that was natural enough—but because Yukiko always coupled Shin-chan and Ran-chan together ever since they were young, and it was hard to imagine her with anybody else.

Worse yet, he was alone.

“…It can’t be. It just can’t.” Ran’s voice quivered noticeably.

“Actually—”

“No. No. No.”

Denial.

Acceptance.

The onslaught of tears.

Yukiko bid her farewell with a slight sniffle. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon…Ran-chan.”

“Wait!—”

…But there was no answer. Yukiko was gone. She didn’t bother calling her back anymore, just sunk down and screamed her heart out.

And the world crashed down before her.

Shinichi,

I’m sorry. For this. For everything. For lacking patience to wait and for being sooo stupid. Please forgive me.

We’re still friends, aren’t we?

Ran

P.S. I missed you a ton, you idiot! I bet my kid would love to see you. He’s going to be the new soccer hero of his generation!

The seasons shifted fast and soon most of the world was filled with white. It was winter—Christmas Eve, to be precise. Immaculate white snow fell leisurely down, frosty teardrops on a foggy December morning.

She made her way across the snowy street, clasping an envelope, and then stopped at the sight of a large estate. It looked, on the most part, abandoned. The tall iron-wrought gate (which served as a boundary between his world and his) was layered with red-brown rust, the trees bitten by frost.

She nearly couldn’t believe that she was here. Again. After all these years.

She wore the mittens he had given her several Christmases ago at this same house. It was worn and stretched from overuse. Colored a rather bright red, like desire. She remembered putting the gorgeous new pair against her chest and feeling its wooly texture, as well as the note he had scribbled for her. As she recalled them they felt like nothing more than distant dreams.

She knelt down and stayed still for some time as she grasped the bars of the iron-wrought gate, thinking. With the wind freely blowing her chestnut hair. As she exhaled a soulless puff of air would escape from her lips and disperse into the cold she so embraced.

Distant dreams, they were. Or nightmares.

She slid her hands in between the iron-wrought bars and placed the envelope on the snow-trodden ground of his world. The letter inside it was written on white paper with a black ballpoint pen, and a snippet of the date was smudged and bluish.

Just the thought of how it came to be threatened to make her cry.

Apparently, she had shed a tear on it in the middle of writing, letting out an uncontrollable sniffle. She put down her pen at the sound of approaching feet, and a pair of arms wrapped her from behind in an embrace.

From the silence, a tiny, loving voice emerged: “Mommy, are you crying?” She sniffled again, shaking her head. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying, baby,” she turned to him and cupped his face with her hands. “Mommy just caught a cold, that’s all.”

He smiled at her, relieved.

“Go play with your papa now and be a good boy, alright?” As she ruffled his hair a smile crept up her face.

She watched the boy nod vigorously and skip away, his voice loud and clear: “Papaaaa! Snow fight!” She could hear papa’s laughter as he gave the boy a piggyback ride—his voice seemed unfamiliar now.

It always was.

As it were, the thought threatened and succeeded. She hugged her knees and buried her face in a river of tears, paying no attention to the frigid cold—it was always there, anyway. It was always freezing, her life.

She hated lying, but what choice did she have? It was her specialty to pretend that everything was a-okay, all the time. And she couldn’t tell her child, especially. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t love papa as much as she should. That the one she truly loved had died.

She had no other choice, really.

She closed her eyes and let her mind wander away from herself, even for a moment, crossing the boundaries. Leaving her world and entering his for a little bit of joy. Just a little.

In his world they hugged and kissed and loved and cared. In his world they smiled endless smiles. In his world memories never faded. In his world they were together—they were free.

In her world she had to return.

So is this the end, Shinichi?

Maybe it was.

Eventually she stood up, tiny bits of snow clinging to her coat which she would brush off gently soon after. She didn’t know how long she’d been there—it might have been a minute, it might have been an hour or eternity.

With a sigh she trudged back home—to the real world. To her child and his sloppy little snowman. They’d agreed to a nifty little snowball fight at her arrival.

She could’ve sworn seeing him back there, smiling at her and her red mittens in spite of it all. But of course it couldn’t be—could it? And yet she just had to smile back, her eyes teary and fogged with illusion. Soon enough, she was just a brownish speck in a snow globe; he an inoffensive puff of air, perhaps.

As the letter was drifted off by a timely breeze (and the tiny speck disappeared into the horizon), the wind carried with it whispers of what she really meant to say up above. At the foggy blue sky; at a diamond on a velvety black night. Her star.

I love you.

A/N: Here is a case of Shinichi dying of a broken heart—literally! (Laughs maniacally) Just kidding! This is actually the hugely (and I mean hugely) revised version of a much shorter fanfic, and it took me ages of blood, sweat, and tears to write this. That being said, I hope all the hard work was worth it, although I must admit that the phone call was extremely cheesy. Take note that the prompt “passion” is more blatantly presented in the first, and if you think the theme isn’t present here at all (or is quite hidden, in the very least), then I apologize. I actually think every ShinRan relationship (any loving relationship, for that matter), always has a hint of passion!

Special thanks to: the LJ theme community

10_fics (which I write this series for); ran_dezvous (for her continual support, day in day out); and ran_mouri82 (for pointing out where my original needed fixing). Here’s hoping I do not disappoint! This isn’t teenage drama…is it? :(

Constructive criticism is much appreciated. You could check out the original at my fic-journal. (Compare and contrast would be lovely!) See you guys in the next fic—but be prepared to wait.

P.S. Editing entries in LJ is soo taxing! *is annoyed*

10 Fics: Shinichi and Ran (01: Saturday Evening)

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 16:22:44 GMT

Title: Saturday Evening
Author: Moonlit Dawn
Fandom: Detective Conan
Characters: Kudo Shinichi/Mouri Ran
Genre: Angst/Romance
Prompt: From Table 2: #2- Passion
Word Count: 1,672
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity; slightly suggestive themes
Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan. I only play god with them when Aoyama’s not looking.
Summary: Love was their Achilles' Heel.

She remembered him then, on that dark Saturday night. Many years have passed, from then to that and from then to now. They lived their lives. Cheery it might appear—but do outwardly appearances deceive! She was married (still is, in fact), and he—well, whatever he was then, it must have been considerably well off from before. That long gone before.

Well off from the time of premature teenage romance. Of Cinderellas and Prince Charmings. Beauties and Beasts turned hotties. Frog Princes. Rapunzels. Princess Hearts and Knights in Shining Armor. All that shit.

But of course she was just supposing.

It was Romeo and Juliet now. Two lovers torn—that is, if they still loved each other. And it must be admitted, yes. Yes they were in love still. Wrong as it was. Silly as it was. Stupid as it was. Idiotic as it was.

Whatever it was, yes they were in love. Were, is, and will be still.

And so she remembered him on that dark Saturday night, even as he lived his life and she lived hers. Away. Very far away. Was it her fault?—was it her fault that when they reunited that dark Saturday night, she pushed him away? Called him a parasite? Shouted loudly, as if to the world, that she was married? And with a child?

Was it her fault? Was it wrong?

She only shielded herself from sinning. Because when they met that dark Saturday night, amidst the people pacing the metropolitan street, she could feel deep inside that she wanted him close to her. And maybe him to her as well. Just a maybe—he never got the chance to admit.

Just close. Close. But things were different now, and so she pushed him away against her will. Into the crowd. Into the looming darkness. Into a swirling, twirling, dizzying abyss. Into god-knows-what-and-where.

Away from her and from everything else that formed her life.

And she ran away from him. Away from everything that she could ever ask for, everything that she ever wanted—him. Shielded herself from sinning, inflicted pain unto herself. Unto both of them.

Love was their Achilles’ Heel.

And before the silhouette of passion disappeared into the darkness, amidst the cars and people in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, he asked why.

Why. A question—or term of exasperation—that meant so many things.

Why let go. Why leave. Why push everything we had away.

This isn’t right.

And then she ran and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—run after her.

Morality was something he fought for. And yes, it wasn’t right.

She tried to love him with all her might, and, for the most part, she succeeded. She loved him with that much strength—but it wasn’t much to start with in the first place. Because try as she did with all her might, she couldn’t. She was weak now—weaker. Much, much weaker.

On sleepy afternoons she would shut her eyes and dream that he was him instead. The him that she loved, not the him with which she shared only pretense passion. The him that she regretted leaving on that dark Saturday night, not the him that she wished she never shared vows with in the first place, an over-jeweled June Bride.

Because then they can’t be together.

On sleepy afternoons she would shut her eyes, lie gently down, and clutch her heart. Feel it throbbing, beating fast. Deeply resonating with unsaid affections. She’d grasp her skin tight, and wish, and she’d feel as if her heart would pop—explode, a mad volcano erupting after being so silent. And red hot lava would gush forth and flood the expanse with thoughts that were unsaid.

The doorbell rang. It was him—that she knew. Him-whom-she-loved-with-all-her-might-but-did-not-love-at-all. She opened her eyes. Sighed. Glanced beside her, at the springy double bed which was in need of another occupant. Why, she thought. And it meant so many things.

She stood up, blinded by early afternoon sun, a bitter greeting by a thing called Life. It was hell all over again.

Amateur Detective Kudo Shinichi Suffers Cardiac Arrest, Dies

…or so the reputable newspaper stated. It came as such a shock, and she could only stare. Stare at the black ink on newsprint and wonder whether it was proclaiming the truth, or whether it was only being dastardly.

After all, words can lie, can’t it?

She clutched the paper in her hands and nearly tore it to pieces in pain and in grief. As if her heart was arrested along with him. Brought to jail, maybe.

Lub-dub…lub-dub….She felt as if her heart had reached its breaking point. And red hot lava would gush forth and fill the expanse with her sorrow.

Lub-dub…lub-dub….Her wild, irrational anger at a person too late to repent.

Lub-dub…lub-dub….Her deep, deep passion reverberating within her heart’s core. Thriving within the epitome of her being—within everything that was her.

Lub-dub…lub-dub….Within everything that was Ran.

A teardrop formed on the corner of both her eyes, at last sliding down like rain on a windowpane. Maybe she was dreaming, and maybe she wasn’t, but she seemed to see the two drops unite at their landing point, forming something very similar to a heart. A very broken, gray heart. And upon further inspection, eyes blurred by hot tears, she noticed.

It lay between Shinichi and Ran, for some strange reason. She smiled. But her eyes were blurred and she couldn’t really see.

Maybe they’re all lying, tricking her. Maybe all her senses deceive now. Maybe she’s mad. Maybe fantasy and reality blended into one, and no stitch truly separates the two anymore.

Yes, it’s all a joke. A lie. And she’s the star guinea pig of a grand magic trick. Dark Saturday nights, cardiac arrests, heart-shaped teardrops positioned very conveniently in order to unite torn lovers, his glorious ageless youth presented before her right at this moment—whoever tricked her was a very good magician.

Was a god.

And truly, through her unreliable eyes she saw him and he saw her. Their gazes locked upon each other, and there was something in his deep blue eyes that spoke more of peace than disappointment. He looked youthful, with that classic blue outfit of his with the matching red bowtie. More seventeen than thirty-odd.

More than where it all began than where it all ended.

Why, she wondered. She examined herself and looked more aged, much to her dismay: wrinkles began to form on her forehead; heavy, gray bags lifted her eyes wearily—those eyes that were made witness to sorrow and silly dreams. Old, dark, unreliable eyes that wished to close forever.

She was barely dressed because he “visited” her at the oddest of periods. She had just taken a bath. Other than underwear, only her towel clothed her. Wrapped her in some sort of synthetic warmth, because nothing replaced the genuine warmth of his embrace. Like a bonfire, with fiery sparks flying about.

Like passion ablaze. Dancing.

He looked at her and she looked back, and this time the silence was not haunting. It was perhaps a cozy quiet. His expression no longer implied of a man hungry for her acceptance. He understood. He glowed with contentment.

And Ran rushed to meet him. To touch him, if she could—if it was possible to grasp the dead. Her towel fell carelessly, but all she could ever give a damn about at that moment was the grave desire to feel his embrace once more—the genuine warmth of a bonfire, fiery sparks flying about.

A passion ablaze. Dancing in whatever way they could.

He smiled; she smiled back. His gaze seemed to inquire, like the last word he ever got to tell her—why. Why only now. But it was different. She shut her eyes, squeezed him tight, enveloping herself in his warmth, and whispered in his ear:

“Because.”

Maybe it was a dream, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she’s lost her mind already in the midst of this whole fiasco—or maybe the fiasco never happened in the first place. Maybe it’s back to the times when they were seventeen—back to the beginning and away from the end—when Shinichi was Conan and Ran was Ran. When she was a Princess and he was her Knight. When she waited and waited. When premature teenage romance transpired. When Cinderellas and Prince Charmings thrived—Beauties and Beasts turned gorgeous men, Frog Princes, Rapunzels. When all that happily-ever-after crap lived vibrantly within them, and Romeo and Juliet was a far, far nightmare.

Maybe, maybe. All uncertainties; neither lies nor truths.

Yet she opened her eyes and saw only darkness.

Ephemeral heart-shaped raindrops on the windowpane dissipating into the cold night air.

A silhouette of passion ablaze. Like a bonfire, with fiery sparks flying about.

Dancing alone on a dark Saturday evening.

A/N: For

10_fics , a no-deadline theme community from Livejournal; ran_dezvous for her continual support, day and night (or at dawn). Thank you for getting me off my procrastinating butt. You are awesome.

Concrit is very much appreciated.

Edit: Hugely revised version located here (or here in Fanfiction.net).

Eerie Silence: Chapter Two

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 18:16:15 GMT

I leaned against the window and looked at the people outside listlessly, ignoring the fact that no talk was initiated between Father and me. All I could hear was the occasional honking of cars, and the cackle of the pick-up truck, which belched numerous clouds of the darkest smoke. The radio wasn’t on. It was hot and a little bit drafty in the car. I felt the urge to take off my denim jacket and some of my clothes, though in the end, I hesitated.

I lifted my finger and gently traced a question mark on the window, wondering what the asylum people would think of me. I was sure they wouldn’t have an inkling who I used to be years before. I was a very different person back then. No longer was I the lively, annoying, talking Christina Wesley, the girl who ventured to quench her curiosities. Not that I was no longer a curious being, in fact, curiosity, I believe, is a prominent human trait. It only happened that I stopped voicing my needs, wants, and questions, tiring as it was at times. I wasn’t about to give up now. People say that curiosity killed the cat. I wasn’t going to end up dead in my tracks like him.

I often talked before. I knew I was a social being, that I had a standing in the world, six-year-old that I was. I engaged in small, meaningless talk and tried to make friends. I ran around, laughing and playing with Abby. Daddy didn’t hurt me then and Mommy concentrated on her sewing and arts.

I had many follies. I think I am better off whom I am now than who I was before—if I am to say so myself. I think I matured. I was only severely misunderstood. Daddy said I was crazy. I say crazy people aren’t as obedient.

I transferred the object of my attention back to the people hustling and bustling, a cornucopia of questions attacking my ever-weary mind. I asked myself if ever they were misunderstood. It was a rhetorical question—I wouldn’t be able to provide an answer anyway. In turn, I also wondered if they were people who misunderstood others, people who called others lunatics even if they weren’t. I wanted to sneer at them, the judgmental men.

Minutes passed by and we left the city and drove on a highway. The place looked utterly unfamiliar. I was, of course, never the travel type. I looked around at the vast expressway, dumbfounded. Daddy was driving faster now. The ride was smoother and there were no more pedestrians.

My hand found its way to my tummy. I felt it growl and in that moment, I felt like I needed a biscuit. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything decent—that is, enough to call a square meal—in two days, as I remember. I only popped candies or cookies in my mouth every few hours or so. I was thankful to have packed a plastic of biscuits today.

I took a small coconut biscuit from my backpack and savored it slowly, making it melt in my mouth rather than biting it. After that, a feeling of sleepiness enveloped me—perhaps due to the silence, the blankness, and the immense unfamiliarity of the road—and I curled up into a ball, closed my eyes, and went to sleep.

I had a bad dream. Nightmares were already regular—and they always concerned the night of Mommy’s death. Today wasn’t any different. I couldn’t see anything in my dream, only a tiny yellow light. I felt as if I could feel clothes against my revealed skin. I could hear all the cruelty in the world with keenness.

“Please, Leonard, don’t do this!” I heard Mommy scream in my dream. It was a pathetic plead that the mystery man did not listen to. I could hear him continuously sucking her skin, only taking a break for a few moments to breathe and speak.

“Shut up, sexy bitch!” I could sense him leaping back in to kiss her, and I heard him moan and grunt in forbidden delight. I cringed.

“I don’t want this!”

“This isn’t about what you want, Hilary!” He yelled frighteningly. Mommy tried to gather up all her strength to scream for help, but what I heard seemed only a useless squeak. “It’s about me and what I want!”

“Please, please, I’ll do anything!” She pleaded some more, trying her luck, though it was all in vain. The man might have already gotten annoyed, for after that, I heard a gunshot. He laughed evilly, and then proceeded to what seemed like breaking Mother’s dear bones. It was horrific.

There was always something weird about my nightmares. I could never recall the rapist being my father, Leonard, but Mommy always mentioned his name in my dreams as if he were the antagonist. I knew the voice of the mystery man was shrill and more youthful compared to Daddy. I couldn’t understand why he was always portrayed as the evil man in my sleep. Why? Could he really be the one? It would explain the reason why he didn’t want any further investigations, but I just didn’t get it. It couldn’t be him. Something in my heart told me it wasn’t. He was mean, but not guilty of rape and murder. There was something inside of me that told me that Daddy wasn’t a very bad person.

I didn’t know exactly how long I’d slept, but it must have been for quite a while, for when I woke up we seemed to be driving up on a hill, on a completely different landscape. I didn’t wake up without shock, despite the fact that my nightmares were already regular and the same. The corner of my eye felt wet, and so I gave it a soft touch. A teardrop had already formed. I asked myself—without reply—if I had actually cried in my sleep. I was in a daze and felt a quick fit of depression fill me—an empty feeling of despondence.

“Wake up, kid,” Daddy said the minute my eyes flicked open. I sat up immediately when I heard him, then rubbed my eyes to strengthen my vision. I didn’t want to make him upset. “We’re here.”

I could smell the aftermath of his smoking—it was immensely unpleasant. I scrunched up my nose and breathed with my mouth, hoping the odor wouldn’t reach my lungs.

I let out an innocent yawn—that was probably as close as I would reach to talking. I could sense Daddy smirking. He knew that, it just seemed funny to hear me let out some air. Funny, in a humorless way. It only proved I could talk, but didn’t want to. After all those times with hardly any sound escaping my mouth, it felt unusual to hear my high-pitched tone, even if it was merely in the form of a yawn.

Daddy parked the truck near a tall oak tree, the truck making irritating noises and cackles—the sound that bid me goodbye as I slept and hello as I woke. I put on my backpack and prepared myself to pull the travel bag with me as soon as Daddy permitted me to jump off. I transferred Elena to my left hand, clutching her tightly.

I waited with a patient look in my eyes as I scanned the place. It was verdant, lush, and filled with trees. There were beautiful rosebushes and a variety of other flowers. It was a natural, picturesque place and I couldn’t help but smile slightly when I saw children frolicking about on the grass, with the sun smiling upon them and giving them tanned skin. At least I knew I wasn’t alone.

“Get out.” Daddy bluntly commanded me. I opened the car door, hopped out, pulled my travel bag with me, and slammed the door shut, with Elena still clutching my left hand. Daddy came out from the driver’s side moments after. I supposed he was going to escort me to the asylum. I appreciated that—truly, I did.

I dismissed the burdening weight on my shoulder and followed Daddy closely behind. There was a wonderful, revitalizing feeling that crept up my throat when I took my first step on a dead leaf and heard its crunchy, crisp sound. Nature was truly inviting. The wind was fresh—it compromised for the layers of clothing that I wore. The children looked so joyful, despite the fact that they must have known that they were in a juvenile ward, a place for the so-called insane. Weren’t they offended?

My simple happiness sank as quickly as it had risen when I saw the building I was to stay in. The garden was beautiful, inviting, a good place for meditation and relaxing, but the gargantuan building made of gray brick looked really a lot like prison—hostile, uninviting. I frowned and let out a small sigh that lay unnoticed. Did those little, frolicking boys and girls really live there?

I felt the sudden urge to leave the place, if only I could. Instead, I continued walking, following Daddy’s path with stiffer and more hesitant footsteps, as if every move was a move that put me closer to my doom. I just wished that I could be as carefree as the playing children, or wake up and realize that I was merely being delusional.

Originally posted here on the fourteenth of February 2007. Last update. Discontinued. (I fail at these things, don't I?)

See also: Chapter One

Eerie Silence: Chapter One

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 17:59:04 GMT

My name is Christina Wesley, and I have a story to tell you. Somehow, I find it essential that the reader should know what the character of a story looks like, so let me give a small mention of my appearance, which shall never be biased in any way, at least not knowingly: I have curly raven hair that reaches just below my shoulders; they flick inward elegantly towards the end. People say that my long eyelashes, which looked as if mascara had been applied on them, wonderfully complement my navy blue orbs. My skin is a rich, milky white color. Mommy once remarked that I looked like a perfect doll of porcelain. Abby said that I was one of the innocent children in stories that looked really pretty, say, the Little Red Riding Hood. I did not know whether to agree.

My father, Leonard, does not seem to like me very much. Ever since I refused to speak—the details of which I shall tell you later—he thought I was crazy. I do not blame him, though. Who wouldn’t think that a kid who could speak but simply does not want to—not in any circumstance—is not crazy? I only wished he were kinder. He beats me—with a belt or with his very own swollen limbs—even if I don’t deserve it. At least, I think I don’t.

I was very close to my mother, Hilary. Two years have elapsed since she died, and a month before that she had constructed and given to me—in purple wrapping and red ribbon—my doll, my best friend. I had never before realized that friends could come in packages. The elders and wise men always say that material things couldn’t buy happiness, but this wasn’t the case.

I named my rag doll Elena. She was the product of my Mother’s fine craftsmanship. Elena started out as merely two peach cloths sewn together—though, as the years passed by, they took a color that likened more to that of brown—of the same size and shape and some cotton. Mommy stitched her front and back parts together using running stitches, thus forming a body.

An opening was left on Elena’s head, and that was where she was stuffed with cotton to expand her and make her huggable and soft. The opening was finally closed and she took the rough form of a baby human, having a round head, two hands that hadn’t any fingers, and feet that hadn’t any toes. She had chrome yellow buttons placed a fair distance from each other on her face for eyes. They were big, the size of coins. Her single lip was curved upwards to form a smile. It was done with blue-black thread, running-stitched. On her head was an abundance of curly mahogany brown hair, braided in two parts. Each part was tied at the end with a rather faded, red ribbon.

Elena wore a dress that was merely a collection of many patches of blue, red, green, and yellow colors. At the hemline of it, soft pink roses went all around. More roses encircled the lower part of her head, for she hadn’t any neck for a collar. Her feet went inside beige bags and at her ankles—if it would be proper to call them as such—more red ribbons were tied to secure her makeshift shoes.

Over the years, she served as my ever-loyal friend that not a soul could have ever replaced—especially when Mommy passed away and I grew silent. I would gaze at her for minutes, and even if a word never escaped my mouth, it felt as if she knew just how miserable I felt. It felt as if Elena shared my pain, my hopes, joys, and fears. We were one and against the world. She would either listen to my ramblings or to the haunting silence that lurked within me and filled the room. I could see her lovely button-eyes eyeing me sympathetically. She understood me and comforted me. I loved her dearly. She was my best friend. Not even my neighbor, Abby Grange—my best friend after Elena—could take her place in my heart. She was my remembrance of Mother, the emblem of her affection for me, the indicator that I will avenge her death.

I promise I will avenge her. The way she died simply wasn’t fair—and goodness, I was only six! She was raped and killed—with me hiding in the closet, keeping silent because she told me to.

“Keep silent,” she told me that night. “Speak a word and you might die.”

I crossed my fingers and brought it across my chest, muttering the all too common word that one uses when making an oath. “Promise.” I said no more, knowing that it will break the very purpose of my oath.

“Good,” Mommy said, patting me on the head before a crash of the vase made her more alert than ever. “Hurry, hide in the closet!”

I nodded and scurried into the open wardrobe, with Mommy closing it for me. I was engulfed in silence, my window to the world being the small opening that was left, since the door could not close fully. Through it, I could see the dim, yellow light of the room I was in. I shifted my position in the narrow area—claustrophobia had, somehow, settled—and felt the texture of clothing against my skin. I could hear a feminine voice—it must have been Mommy’s—screaming, and another unfamiliar, manly voice moaning, grunting, and cursing, the sound of sucking. It proved too much for a little child like me to take. I knew something wasn’t right, and I broke into a river of silent tears. I did not allow myself to make a sound even as I wept, for I kept a promise.

She died that day. The mysterious man killed her off after enjoying her body. I looked at her gruesome corpse as she was taken for autopsy. I thought these kinds of murders only happened in TV. She looked ugly and her head was twisted for more than 180 degrees, breaking it. She had a dislocated shoulder and a twisted leg. A bullet went through her heart. The experts said that was enough to kill her, really, but no, the evil man wanted to enjoy himself by further torturing my Mother’s body. I was furious, but I said nothing. The rapist was never caught and I hated Daddy for not pursuing the search of this cruel mystery man. He said he didn’t want any more trouble.

I kept my promise of keeping silent with me. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became two years. I brought it with me all the days of my life, never letting a day pass without reliving the horrors I could hear and could sense in that small wardrobe, without unfolding it once again as if it were a movie, and Mommy and I were the stars.

Daddy brought me to numerous hospitals, wondering if it was a sickness that made me mute. Every doctor in town—heck, even out of town—assured him and reassured him that I could speak, just didn’t want to. That led him to suppose that I was mad, crazy, insane. It was all the same—I never spoke a word to him, only nodded or shook my head when I happened to be in a good mood. I received beatings, sometimes utterly severe, but that didn’t matter. You can call me crazy just like he did, but let me tell you—I did it for the sake of promises. Maybe I am crazy for this, maybe I’m not. It does not matter to me.

Once, someone suggested to him that I be brought to an asylum out of town. He seemed interested in the idea. I knew something was going to happen. He considered me a burden, after all, a germ, a waste of space and a waste of his precious money. I was to be disposed of immediately. Maybe be adopted or put in a juvenile ward?

“For God’s sake, why can’t I get rid of you for one day, you crazy, think-you-know-everything bitch?” he’d usually say. “You snoop around everywhere like a silent cat!”

The fact that I never said anything annoyed the wits out of him. He had had enough. Today, I packed my things. I picked my necessities carefully—I knew I could not bring them all to my destination. I wore three layers of clothing plus the undergarments to save myself from carrying too much luggage—on the outside, I was wearing a long-sleeved fuchsia dress that beautifully twirled, a denim jacket, black leggings, and rubber shoes. I looked quite unfashionable, and I was wearing two pairs of socks. It didn’t matter—it was a cold day, anyway. My other clothes went inside my bag, and Elena never ceased to hang onto my arm. Over the years, my careless carrying on its hand had made it prone to being separated from its body altogether, and now one could see a white substance—the filling, cotton—threatening to spill from her right armpit.

I was squeezing my clothes into my last bag when I heard Daddy call for me. “Christina! Hurry up and get down here. We’ll be leaving any minute now!”

I wore my backpack and slung my travel bag on my left shoulder in haste. Then, I went down the stairs, with Elena accidentally crashing onto the steps sometime and again as I held her on my right. The sound of my footsteps was enough to tell him; I didn’t need to tell Daddy that I was going down. I wouldn’t. That he already knew—after two years and no word escaping my lips since then. He ignored me when we had eye contact, so I continued walking.

Exhausted, I went outside and put my travel bag down. Daddy was still inside, reading a newspaper and smoking a mint cigarette. Abby was waiting for me outside the ivory gates. She wore a sky blue tank top and a denim miniskirt. Her wavy ebony hair was pigtailed in two by blue hair scrunchies. Her olive eyes had been eyeing me cautiously, as if waiting for me to let her in. I thought for a moment, then I decided that I would. It is my last day, after all. I opened the gates for her, and seven-year-old Abby proceeded to the garden paradise feeling homely. A babyish pout played on her lips as she sat on the swing and began kicking her feet on the ground to pick pace. I suppose she was waiting for me to say something, even after the two years that passed by with me always failing to satisfy this one wish of hers. I said nothing. I was waiting for her to speak up—I would only listen.

Finally, her soft lips parted from each other, and sounds escaped her lips. They remained incoherent mumbles, until she decided she could not take it anymore without asking me: “Why, Christina? Why don’t you speak?”

There was a wistful look in my eyes as I gazed up at the sky. Clouds hung over the sun and birds were flying about. The weather was good. I waited patiently in that position. She knew far well that this talk was going to be hopeless, but she still painstakingly persevered. Why?

Realizing I wouldn’t utter a word, she continued her one-person chat with me. “Christina, you used to speak, you did! Don’t you realize what you are doing? Look at you! Your world is falling apart. Here you are wearing layers of clothing, with two bags to carry, and going to an asylum just because your father thinks that you’re insane! I don’t think you’re insane. You’re only quiet and I only wish that you’d tell me a word about your problems, the cause of this all!” Her voice seemed to be near tears. It saddened me. Somehow, I felt like I wanted to speak then, but something pulled me back from doing so. My promise. “Aren’t we still friends?”

I nodded and blinked wildly, forcing the tears not to escape my eyelids. Was my world really falling apart? No, I told myself, I would not succumb to that statement. My world is in perfect order. You could say I put up a façade and refused to look at what was real—my ever crashing life.

“Then, if we are, why don’t you tell me anything?” She was crying already. It was such a pathetic situation. I couldn’t do anything that would really fix the dilemma. I couldn’t break my promise, could I? Instead, I took out my handkerchief from my jacket’s breast pocket and gently wiped her tears. She reached out and embraced me.

“Despite that, we’ll still be friends. I’m sure of it. Don’t ever forget me, okay?” I could feel the tears on my hand as she sobbed. She was a good friend, indeed, she was, but I couldn’t do anything. I hugged her back firmly and lovingly and nodded again. She smiled and laughed bitterly.

“I will never forget you, Christina Wesley. And I will visit you.” That made me smile, even in the slightest. Someone in the world won’t forget me. Someone in the world will visit me. Someone in the world still loves me. Someone in the world is still my friend. Elena is, of course, a special exemption, and Daddy never seemed to care that much for me. I pressed Elena’s deformed hand and let Abby touch it.

“Ah! So this is your little friend. What’s her name again? Elena, isn’t it?” she asked me cheerily, if only fake. I bobbed my head in affirmation. She smiled and hugged it like it was her own baby girl. “She’s very pretty. I like her hair and—oohh—the roses look lovely!”

She bore into her button eyes and talked to her softly. “You will be her companion for me, won’t you? You take care of her for me. Understand her. Be a good friend. That is our little secret.” Then, she made Elena nod and after that, she smiled, handing Elena back to me as if she told her nothing at all. Too bad, I already knew what she said—their little secret, apparently. I played along. I rather liked the idea, anyway.

My innocent smile faded when I saw Father coming. I immediately waved my hand at Abby to bid her goodbye, and when she left, I slung my travel bag back on my arm. It was heavy, and it ached my shoulder pretty much.

“Who was that—Abby?” Daddy asked me gruffly. I merely looked at him with knowing eyes, as if he should know.

“Never mind that. The asylum will make you right, and soon enough, you will talk. Now, hop in.” He motioned me to get in the passenger seat of his car. It was an old pick-up truck, but he had grander ones. I suppose I was just too much of a waste to use his better cars. I got in and put my bags beside me and Elena on my lap.

“Say goodbye to your life here. I’ll finally get rid of you, you little puss!” His feet pressed hard on the gas pedal and we went off. We were going out of town and to an asylum on a hill. I felt like I was accused of a crime I wasn’t guilty of, and because of that was now being sent to jail. It was simply unfair.

I said goodbye to my home, goodbye to Abby, goodbye to the city, and goodbye to Daddy—that is, with a sense of slight relief. At least, I told myself, I still had Elena with me, and Mother stamped in my mind, forever cherished as a memory. That would have been enough to make me survive my unfair predicament.

Originally posted here on the twelfth of February 2007. Discontinued after Chapter Two.

The Product of Nonexistence (Shattered Glass: Chapter One)

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 17:50:06 GMT

Disclaimer: I do not claim any Card Captor Sakura characters mentioned in this fiction or in any other as my property. Use of these characters is for entertainment purposes only. I make no money from this story and do not intend to commit copyright infringement.

Shattered Glass

As delicate glass is played with by intrusive hands, unaware of its fragility, so wedding vows fall apart, shattered pieces scattered and prickled with painful thoughts.

I: The Product of Nonexistence (Li Sakura)

“I will love you forever and ever; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; ‘til death do us part.”

Memories of my wonderful wedding with Syaoran continuously echoed in my mind. The many words that have been uttered during that most splendid event remained ever so vivid, in my heart and in my head. And now, to my utmost joy, I beheld the fruit of my labor with Syaoran, dear—a beautiful baby girl, with pale cheeks, sweet chocolate eyes, and naturally smooth skin. She was the product of our love, ever shining in her innocence. Even as she wailed, I felt as if she was giving me due gratitude and declared a certain love for me, odd as that might have sounded to any childless person.

It was in an immediate moment that my life became dedicated to her, and I told myself that she shall always be the first in my agenda. I promised that I would do well in my work to earn her a good education, a good life. That promise shall always be kept, and I was truly willing to take drastic measures to prove it. I knew that I would be with her, taking care of her even when my terms with my husband are bad—although I never once thought that it would be, for I always believed that we were soul mates, never to sin against each other. That was how strong my love was for her, knowing that, indeed, she was mine, my outgrowth. Syaoran would then only come in second place, of which later in my life was rendered harmful to a healthy family relationship.

I held the little angel in my arms, swelling with unmatched pride even as I lay helplessly on the hospital bed. It was then that Syaoran asked me a very important question, as other people believed it predicted personalities and determined lives. “What should we name her, Sakura?” Gently and lovingly, he stroked my honey brown hair, and I let out a shy giggle.

I, in my turn, believed that certain superstition. I looked contemplatively at the whitewashed ceiling before a name then popped in my mind—the name of ultimate blessing. “Megumi, because she is a grace from God,” came my proposal, a cheery smile grazing my features.

Megumi, I supposed, spoke of talent, grace, intelligence, and an ever pure beauty, that of which always bedazzled me. An angel from heaven, somehow I imagined her having silver wings at her back, streaked with shimmering gold. I was zealous, indeed, to spend my life with her. I felt as if I could even see a secret smile behind her wrinkled, crying face.

“Megumi it is, then.” Syaoran soon laid a chaste peck on my forehead, followed by a nod, which I reckoned was a sign of approval. I smiled and returned him his kiss, this time on his moist and lovely lips.

My marriage, I trusted before, was perfect and could only go uphill. Little did I know that it was only the beginning, and that most marriages—of which ours wasn’t an exception—turn to a silent ruin that is caused by a slowly waning love—a love turned bland—shared by husband and wife.

In the beginning, I had already begun to sense that Megumi-chan shared a closer relationship with her papa. It was he who taught her how to speak her first “word”: dada. It was he who fed her her very first vegetable—green peas—and her very first root crop—potatoes that were mashed to a baby-friendly state. And it was also Syaoran who gave her her very first trim, resulting in some very uneven hazel hair. Despite the sadness that stirred deep in my heart, I could not suppress a laugh for that. Her bangs, when not shoved to the side of her face, looked obviously jagged—and it wasn’t for style. The middle portion hung menacingly up to the bridge of her cute nose, and she would typically cross-eye and attempt to blow the curly nuisance out of her way, to no avail. At least, that was what Syaoran would tell me.

Admittedly, the reason for this unusual closeness was because I was hardly there to be with her, although I certainly wished I could. It was a fact that I was a General Manager and Syaoran only managed Procurement. This topic of inferiority often resulted to arguments, and I would always retort, saying that he was a lazy man and that I worked more. I remember once (and thus a slightly lengthy tale commences):

I was watching my favorite soap opera that night, annoyed out of my wits at the five-minute commercial break that disturbed the show every ten. I supposed that an actual thirty-minute program was actually only about twenty minutes uncut. That, however, proved to be the least of my worries.

Syaoran approached me nonchalantly, choosing to sit on the arm of the sofa nearest me. The awkward silence that occupied the next minute started to drown me in an unspeakable uneasiness, and, somehow, guilt. I knew I had missed something important, but that of which, I myself could not tell. It was like I lived in a different world.

Yet, somehow, he had lessened my burden of speaking up by being the first to initiate a conversation. “Hey, hon’, you know…it’s Meggie-chan’s first week in school, and she says bullies take her food. That would explain why she lost weight, don’t you think?” His voice was deep, handsome, reminding me of his chocolate hair, although I believed that I was about to be lectured of my absences or something of the sort.

I had actually begun to notice the outstanding frailty of my child, Li Megumi. She was a scrawny little kid, with insipid skin, and once or twice her dad would complain to me about her having sprains. It would suffice to say that I do not really pay much attention to it, and that, in my own faulty turn, makes me feel a sense of responsibility whenever an ailment happens to strike her, after never nurturing her that much in my life. Being barely there for her needs, we had begun to rely on powdered milk, not the milk of my unconscious making. I often wondered if my dearie made the mixture too hot or too powdery up to a bad state.

“Ah, so that’s why she’s weak lately. The poor child,” came my pathetic reply after what seemed like ages of thought. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, and even when I looked away to save myself from feeling even more shame, the aura of regret never ceased. I swallowed a lump in my throat and tried to concentrate my eyes on the TV screen, hoping to make myself appear too busy for any distressing talk. “Ah…uhmm…anything else, Syaoran-kun?”

“I was wondering if you could talk to her homeroom teacher.” He stated almost immediately.

I sank deeper in my spot, hoping the date he would suggest would coincide with a business meeting of mine, just so that I could skip it. Heck, I didn’t even know who Megumi’s homeroom teacher was! “When?” I finally found the courage to ask.

“The earlier, the better. We can’t let this go out of hand, Sakura.” He said, his tone shimmering with true concern. It was almost like a slap in the face for a person like me, a person who almost didn’t seem to care.

In that moment, I told myself that if I didn’t say “yes,” I would hate myself—and so would Syaoran—for until god-knows-when. And so, even with a bit of reluctance, I consented, forcing a smile. “I’ll try tomorrow.”

“That’s great!” He exclaimed, locking me in a warm and hearty embrace. “I was only so worried about Megumi…thank God this’ll be solved. I need to travel to Osaka this week, you see, and I’ll be busy.” He grinned at me and seemed so thankful. Syaoran kissed me lightly on the lips, and in that moment, I could really feel his worry disappearing and his relief entering.

I nodded to show my approval and assurance, though I couldn’t help but feel as if the fake smile that played on my lips showed obvious signs of sadness and doubt.

I tried to keep my promise. Tomorrow. That was it.

My tomorrow didn’t come the day after. Simply stated, I had forgotten. I woke up early dreading another day of tedious work of signing papers and giving lectures, yet the promise I had given my husband never crossed my mind, even as I observed his innocent figure that lay on the bed in deep slumber, stroking his disheveled hair.

I left home for work, never even wondering the trouble I would cause Syaoran as he would frantically think of ways to bring little Megumi to school without jeopardizing his important business schedule. My mind was occupied by something else, like the deal with our company’s client, whether I should fire this woman with a horrific performance, or things of the sort. Business. Purely business-oriented thoughts occupied my once empty head as I spent my entire day.

I also came home that day feeling clueless as to the reason of Syaoran’s closely-knit eyebrows and the appearance of his frighteningly stern face. His arms were crossed and his eyes glared at me intensely. It was then that I saw tiny Megumi, sitting on the couch with the most heartbreaking frown. She had a bandage on the corner of her forehead.

“Tadaima (I’m home), Syaoran….Meggie-chan, what happened to your forehead?” I inquired, oblivious to the strict and uneasy air encircling the room.

Syaoran gave me the answer before Megumi could even open her sweet mouth. It was brief, crisp, firm, and hard…almost scary, like I wanted to run away. “Bullies, Sakura. Bullies.”

Finally, it all came running back to me, like a fast bullet aiming at my temple. I felt so stupid realizing my blunder—and so responsible as well, seeing my little daughter near tears and with bruises. I covered my mouth in surprise, though my hand came by in the slowest of movements. “Sorry.” I muttered, even as my mouth was blocked.

“Sorry? That’s all—sorry? Sakura, I thought you said you’d go today and fix the problem! And you didn’t even bring Megumi to school, for crying out loud! Look at her…just look….” He bellowed in intense fury and somehow—or at least that was what I was able to observe—sadness and disappointment. As I followed his rhetorical order, I found my conscience being injured severely. It broke my heart into a million pieces.

Megumi. Poor Megumi. She was the weak victim of circumstance or rather, neglect. Her defenselessness is the product of my absence. To her, I hardly existed anymore. Sometimes, family relationships could only go so far as being interconnected by blood and genes, but perhaps nothing more. We were genuine examples.

“I’m…” I tried to provide an explanation, or at least an apology.

“I don’t need any more of your explanations, Sakura!” Syaoran snapped intrusively, forcing me to widen my eyes in surprise. “Sure, I might be hanging around in this place so much that you’ve given me the title of ‘househusband,’ but what about you? You’re almost a nobody to Megumi! A simple visit to her teacher—no, you couldn’t do it! What do you think this does to our child, huh?”

He started huffing and puffing, and I lowered my head, hoping to avoid the pain of his gaze. “I told her…this morning…not to let bullies take her food…and she did just that….Thing is, they beat her up in return….Don’t you see? And she was just so friendless…and no soul helped her, for Pete’s sake!”

He motioned towards me and held my jaw tightly with his hand. It felt like I was at his mercy, and that I should beg or something of the sort. I had never witnessed this—this evil and seemingly unforgiving—side of Syaoran, to which I was soon to discover more. During that moment, he frightened me out of my wits. I hissed yet another sorry through my clenched teeth, hoping that he would finally decide to release me. It was abuse.

“Not even you….I can’t believe it….” He applied an even stronger force. I mustered enough strength to dart my eyes across the whole room, concluding when they caught sight of Megumi. She was crying silently and was wiping her tears with the back of her stiff yet tender hand. I informed Syaoran by hissing her name, hoping that he would drop his guard and come to her aid, even if I was to be left alone feeling even more morose and dejected than I already was. Truth is, his words really hit me like a stone, and my conscience was starting to attack me way too much. I felt like drowning.

I was relieved to see him get the hint. He dropped his hand—with such force that I recoiled pretty much like a gun—and came to Megumi’s rescue, who then wailed while telling her papa to stop. “Stop…please…papa…no…don’t shout anymore….” The loud sound of her crying created a multitude of heartache.

“Yes, Megumi-chan, papa will stop.” He consented without the slightest look or tone of hesitation.

At that moment, I could see his protectiveness with the most open of eyes. He was to a point of spoiling her—although, during that time, I was almost glad, for if not, it might have not yet seen the end of Syaoran’s monstrosity. Perhaps it was true that Megumi was weak and in need of care—but no, she didn’t need to be spoiled with gifts and dolls. I hoped that it wasn’t the case—she would be a papa’s girl, then.

Still, I stood at the sidelines, caressing my painful jaw. I watched without uttering a word, the tenderness they shared prickling me like needles. She never mentioned “mama”—no, she didn’t. That made me even sadder than what seemed to be my saddest state. She didn’t seem to acknowledge me. Megumi didn’t even bid me a goodbye when papa carried her to her bed to take a rest. No. No. No. The only hint of her knowing that I was actually in existence was the fact that she wanted her papa to stop...stop hurting me….

Tears slid down my cheeks when I was, at last, given the liberty of being alone with my emotions. But then, before he left to tuck Megumi in, Syaoran actually gave me one last glare as if saying that it wasn’t over.

Years Later

Indeed, it felt as if he was trying to let something sink deep into my conscience—even if it took years. He started to be less of a father and more of a working parent, although he still was, in fact, too lenient when it came to twelve-year-old Megumi, thus spoiling her. Megumi, in turn, didn’t like me very much. That I knew. She complained about me being too strict, while she always found protection in her father to save her…every single time. It felt like the whole world was against me. Syaoran had gone too far in being too lax when it came to her. Now, she had become so very hard to satisfy, with less than fulfilling grades. Disgraceful as it may sound for a mother to say, she was more or less a wreck, a burden, and seemingly nothing more.

It was out of guilt that I decided to try and be closer with my ever rebellious, though frail, child—though we still seemed to be far as ever, separated by what appeared to be a see-through glass barrier—and actually drive her to school even if I was busy myself. Today was one such day.

I was becoming ever more concerned about my weak child, being the target of bullies and all. Her skin was approaching a very dull state—grayish peach, and not the lively peach we had expected. She looked so sorry and worthy of pity—even as I merely glanced at her sporadically with the use of my vehicle’s rear-view mirror. I adjusted it to take a better look at her thin figure. Then, I decided to strike up a conversation—perhaps what one would call as small talk—even as I was preoccupied with driving her to her private school—a new school that I trusted would take great care of my child, as if her teacher would serve as her second mother...maybe even her first, as I was “always away.”

“Hey, Meggie-chan, how’s your first month in school? Your grades?” I began, hoping that what I would hear in return was something that spoke of cheer.

She scoffed before answering. “Typical,” then came her short-lived reply. I saw her cross her arms in indignation, then move to an edge in the backseat so that I wouldn’t be able to see her.

I took a deep breath and exhaled it the moment after, trying my utmost not to get temperamental at her rude replies. I attempted a smile. “Expound, Megumi. Your grades?”

“It’s low. I hate Math and suck at it—not that you care.” Yes, Megumi positively abhorred mathematical equations and other things that concerned too many numbers—and letters, if that concerned algebra. I could have sworn that I sensed her rolling her eyes, much to my annoyance. Still, I tried not to shout, but my voice might have sounded really pestered by this less than courteous reaction.

“The fact that I want to know about it—doesn’t that show that I care?” I objected firmly.

“No, it doesn’t.” She countered. It was brief and crisp, reminding me of her father’s ambiguous and short replies. I bit my lower lip and was starting to boil in anger due to her impolite attitude. She had better let this stop. She had better act more respectfully, like the way girls like her should act towards mothers! “You’d never understand, ma. Nobody ever does. You were never picked at in school, were you, huh?”

It was then that I almost hit a pedestrian walking on the pedestrian crossing, missing by merely a few inches. The car screeched before reaching a rough halt. I tried not to scream at the passerby in irritation, eventhough he was wrong for crossing when the red man was lighting up. I could have sworn I heard Megumi mumble things about me…that child! I groaned and finally gave in to cursing under my breath. Taking care of a child was hard, really hard.

The rest of the drive, which wasn’t very lengthy, was spent in pure silence. Neither of us could find anything to talk about—and if we did, it would usually result to short tempers. Maybe it would be fitting to say that we didn’t have any chemistry. Well, the mere fact that we weren’t born in the same period, and thus experienced different childhoods, meant that we really did have a hard time understanding each other. I always thought the youth of today was too preposterous, while Megumi would retort, saying that I was always stuck in the “Oldies Age.” Haha! I vividly remember those jolly times—though spent in mockery—wherein she used to be a tad bit kinder to me, though, of course, her daddy always remained number one. It was already a basic part of the status quo.

Soon, we arrived in her new private school. It was humongous, with an appearance that shone like a beacon of model education. I smiled. She would probably become transformed into a better person in a school such as this. She only needed more time. I put my faith in that belief.

However, my reality started to strike back at me with such force, similar to the force that my growing Megumi applied when she shut the car door and scram to her newfound friends in school—without even saying a single word that would have served as bidding goodbye. It all came running back to me, how Megumi never really seemed to acknowledge my presence, and how we would inevitably drown in a certain haunting silence if I would never speak up. She would never ever be the one to make the first move in befriending me. Her cowardice—mind I call it—prevented her from doing so. She just simply didn’t want to, or couldn’t do so.

Deep inside, I see this sad person just trying to run away from all of her misery, like the preteen in a school uniform that quickly escaped my sight, satchel in hand. Marriage, indeed, always has its ups and downs, with the latter usually occurring more often in the Li type of setting.

Thinking about it, I can say that life is indeed so bittersweet. Nevertheless, the rest of my troubles, I tell you, are only yet to come.

Originally posted here as a remake on the first of April 2007. This hiatus (or most probably discontinued) fanfic turns a year old today! Such a pity I can't work on it anymore.

10 Fics: Shinichi and Ran

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 15:40:29 GMT

I plan to get back into writing for my own good (you guessed it: Shin/Ran ficcage!), so here goes 10_fics Theme Table #2 (chosen from a set of three):

001. Fading
002. Passion
003. Stay
004. Rain
005. Within
006. Dread
007. Revenge
008. Time
009. Perfect
010. Eyes

Thank goodness this theme comm doesn't give any deadlines, as I am slow as a slug in updating these days. I promise I won't drop my claim anymore....

Most Recent: Distant Dreams (Prompt #2- Passion) - edited version of Saturday Evening

Is There the One Who Loves?

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 04:41:46 GMT

I look up at the sky and I wonder
What is it that lies above?
Stars, stars, more twinkling stars
But is there the One Who Loves?

I search for Him in places many
In hope that one day, I’ll find I succeed
North, south, east, and west
So sorry to find it’s less than I heed

For what lies before me is a world befallen
An infestation of greed, of vice
Of death, and all mad things between
All stupid, silly lies

Where is the order? The peace?
That a God so good would have brought and restored?
How strong your faith is to stand your ground
When day by day you are made witness
To the births of lies dug up and found
The pitiful deaths of truth

Truly, to believe without as much as a tiny doubt
Is the feat of all feats!
Oh, am I burned up with envy!

For what is it to live
If in the ending,
Is but a great demise met?
We are but souls, but a mere little lending
In the Lord God’s varied set

So follow, follow we must
Follow we must God’s “Holy Plan”
Follow we must to the death!
Follow must any a man

And yet, why serve with both our eyes snapped tightly shut?
Alas!
Why seek truth in what may be a mirage?
Is it because it gives us hope,
Because it brightens up the future, the past?

And if not?
What?—I daresay
Live! What for?
For where lies the meaning of day?

My dears, I am on my knees telling
That I again looked towards the sky and was left to wonder
Do you truly believe
That a God indeed lies yonder?

Answer me.
Please.

Originally posted here on the twentieth of February 2008, under the pseudonym Runaway Soul. *shrugs* Based on my current situation.

To Define the Undefinable

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 13:33:37 GMT

Title: To Define the Undefinable
Author: Moonlit Dawn
Genre: Friendship/General
Fandom: Detective Conan
Characters: Haibara Ai and Edogawa Conan
Word Count: 422
Rating: G (General Audience)
Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan. I just abduct Aoyama’s beloved characters and treat them like lab rats.
[Original] Summary: The chain of catastrophes in her life rendered her unable to answer the question.

A faint glow of sunlight made its way through Venetian blinds, illuminating the spacious room in which it entered. As a result, her face was hit directly by the yellowy light, that girl who sat on a wooden chair before a wooden desk, biting the eraser end of a #2 pencil. Her eyes squinted just a bit in instinctive response.

The girl, as it appeared, seemed to be working—or at least trying to—as evinced by the sheet of white paper laid out before her. The sheet was blank, except for the topic which she found herself required to work on, namely: What is a friend?

A friend is—

In all honesty, she hadn’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t as if she had any friends that she could use to form a basis. If she had been required to describe what an enemy is, she would have been able to produce a long, in-depth essay—pronto. That not being the case, though, there she sat, looking so idle as she contemplated on the preposterous idea of friendship—at least to her.

She peered over her shoulder at her fellow classmate. He was busy scribbling, and his pencil lead seemed to overflow with many an idea. Her lips turned upward into a half-smile. He must have a lot of friends.

Good for you, Kudo-kun.

And, as if he heard her inner thought, his pencil reached a halt. He glanced at her, a polite smile on his face. “You’re done, Haibara-san? What did you write?”

“Erhm...nothing much. I’m—still thinking.” And with that she turned round to look at her dreaded paper once again, and pretended to occupy herself with writing.

“Eh—still thinking? For an hour? It can’t be that hard, can it?”

“...None of your business.” Still, she felt slightly tickled at his curiosity, and, as lead met paper, an idea struck her. Of what a friend was. She finished her phrase then twirled her writing instrument, rather happy that she, at last, figured out what to say.

A friend is someone who is there for you...

...and you may never realize it.

And there he was, apparently oblivious to how deep she felt for that friendship, as he scratched his head with his pencil in bewilderment. In the middle of it all—she couldn’t exactly trace when—her ventures with him became far more than repentance. Reconciliation gave way to a very deep-seated and intense feeling.

As if, through him, she morphed into a girl who felt. Sometimes too much.

Originally posted here on the first of November 2007, under the pseudonym Moon-kun. I've realized that the situation is highly similar to ran_dezvous' fic, An Essay and the Future, although the questions Ai was tackling were different. Feel free to check hers out and leave a comment!

Ai is a lovely creature, isn't she?

Dark House

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 15:43:49 GMT

The house was dark and abandoned—devoid of human life, save for this lone visitor whose purpose of visitation she herself had no clue about. Only the usual creepy-crawlies remained. Thick layers of dust covered surface after surface, as if shielding away memories of the past.

It was really dark. Empty. Eerie. Scary. She advanced slowly, clutching every bit of caution she possessed.

A framed photograph had been left atop the line of shelves, she noticed. The frame was made of good quality wood, but it had been neglected for years. She picked up the object and held it in her arms.

Oh.

A tear landed on the dusty glass shielding the photo. Too many memories came back, flooding. They were both bad and good. She spread the teardrop with her thumb to see the image clearly.

It was a picture of a family. A father. A mother. A daughter and a son. All smiling happily, all joyous and carefree.

…And yet they all left her. She was alone now.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and all of a sudden the unlit house shone bright with the joys of the past—of jelly sandwiches, crayons, Mommy’s reprimands, commendations, chores, multiplication tables, procrastination sessions. Those were the good old days. Days when you had no care in the world. Simple days now gone by.

Another drop. She missed those days oh so terribly.

She opened her eyes again, and all she saw was darkness.

She sighed. The house had once been a home.

Originally posted in Prompt 153: Dark House in theme community all_unwritten .

All I Could Do

Sat, 26 Jan 2008 04:46:15 GMT

I’m in a hurry when I see you, sitting in a far-away corner. You look sad; your face is smeared with tears, too many of them. They pour and pour like hell. You tell me you feel helpless, you tell me you want to die. You tell me that you need a friend, and ask, meekly, if I could be one. If only for a moment.

I tell you I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I have to go. Like him, you think. And you turn away, keeping to yourself. And I went.

Because that is all I could ever do.

Originally posted in Prompt 145: All I Could Do in theme community all_unwritten