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I hereby declare today, er, tomorrow Unfinished Fic Amnesty Day. There are things that are just rotting on my harddrive that will never be complete and thus shall never see the light of day. So, because I have been slogging through writer's block for the past four months or so, I give you my unfinished fic. It shall now be retired to Hank's draft folder which means I'm done with it:
Girl Parts
Eve is a girl. Of that everyone is sure. Or at least they were.
Two legs, two arms, a pretty, funny mouth, cute nose and she squeals -- shrill girl sounds -- when she’s excited. She is also in possession of all the requisite girl parts: Breasts, cunt, slender bones, contradictory nature and devious brain.
When Eve was born, sliding out of her mother all squirmy gray and blue, misshapen and obviously female (even though the doctors and ultrasounds guaranteed a boy), Belinda, Eve’s mother, stayed in the hospital for a week amidst obnoxiously pink and white flowers to recover from the shock of not having birthed a son. Richard, equally horrified, retired to his country club to be comforted by his compatriots and the tall, leggy blonde who manned the bar. She was a great bartender and an even better lay . He thought her name might have been Megan or Heather or, maybe, Wendy with an i. That is, until she very matter-of-factly said that her name was Evette and that she had gotten her Master’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering at UC Irvine and was in the PhD program at MIT. Bartending was just for kicks and the old guys tipped well.
She said all of that right before dumping his drink - bourbon on the rocks - into his lap. It was her last day and he should at least know the name of the women he fucked. The next morning Richard named his brand new baby daughter after the ballsy, brainy bar maid with big tits and long legs.
One week later Belinda and Richard brought the newly named Eve home. They tucked her into the nursery hurridly redecorated from blue sailboats and red fire trucks to pink ballerinas and fluffy brown teddy bears. Someone even threw in fuzzy yellow ducks for good measure and promptly forgot her. Mostly.
Belinda, intent upon being a picture perfect mother, arranged playdates and bought dresses edged in yards of lace. When it was time, she joined the PTA and organized the kitchen staff in baking cookies and brownies, the occasional cake or pie. She made an excellent, if slightly uninvolved den mother by the time Eve was old enough to become a Girl Scout.
Belinda even joined a Book Club with some of the other mothers which she hosted in the large downstairs sitting room once every other month.
Belinda always called Eve down from her pink and yellow room, made the poor dear curtsy and preen and pass plates of cookies and finger sandwiches. Belinda showed her off and then sent her on her way. Into the garden to play or up to her pink room with it’s mountains of stuffed animals. Eve hunkered down on the floor and pulled out the Hot Wheels and Tonka trucks that the staff smuggled to her and waited until Mama sent the other mothers home. Then she hid under the bed and waited until Mama had gone from roaring drunk, staggering through the house smashing things and shrieking Eve’s name, to placidly high. Then Eve went out to the garden to play with Jorge, the beautiful golden retriever that her father had named Buddy.
Originally intended for the Darla ficathon but never quite finished. Scraped together and submitted Eternal Return about an hour after it was due.
Assatanata
Rome, 1901
“You know, she had the most delicious scream.”
Darla blew gently on the cold window and traced hearts in the patch of fog left behind on the glass. Carefully, she drew an X over each and every heart.
“Italians are such great screamers,” she said, gently flicking her tongue against the front edge of her teeth. “They’re so passionate. Reminds you that death and sex can sound remarkably similar, don’t you think? You used to be like that, Angelus. Passionate. Now look at you. Pathetic.”
She turned into the room, bathed in the light of a dozen candles and moonlight streaming through the rain-spattered glass.
Drusilla crouched on the floor near the grand piano, idly stroking the leg of the man cringing on the bench above her. Drusilla wanted to eat him, but Darla wouldn’t allow it. “We need ambiance,” she had said. “We need to set the mood.”
The poor gentleman, grey-faced and weak, ignored the seeping holes just above his collar and played steadily, his dancing fingers never missing a bar. He played, not the best Darla had ever heard, but well enough to justify his continued existence.
“What are you doing here?” Angel wavered in the doorway, dark and forbidding, lacking the light of malice that Darla so adored.
“We’ve brought you a gift,” Darla lisped, tipping her blonde, curly head and smiling.
A girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, lay curled in the center of the wide bed at the room’s far edge. She had dark hair and dark eyes; a pretty thing with dusky skin and full lips. Her dark eyes stared up at the ceiling, blind, her neck arched too far backward.
“Unfortunatly, I got a little peckish.”
“I’m hungry, too, but grand mummy won’t let me have a bite,” Drusilla whined from her place on the floor. Her nimble fingers plucked lightly at the pants leg beside her. The pianist played steadily on.
“We’ve come to help you, Angelus. To save you.” Darla moved forward slowly, her arms raised to welcome Angel home. “There’s another maid locked up somewhere downstairs.”
“Tight as a mouse,” Drusilla chimed in.
Angel stumbled away, moving heavily along the edge of the room to avoid Darla. His eyes darting away to the floor, the window covered in crossed out hearts, the candles and the man bent over the ivory piano keys, anywhere except at Darla.
“Darla. Why are you here?”
“I told you. I’ve come to save you.”
“You’ve been all corrupted,” Drusilla sing-songed from the floor. “Those nasty Gypsy bitches put a little worm in your head and Grandmummy has come to take it out.”
Darla smiled.
“How long has it been, Angelus? Since you’ve fed.” Darla moved closer. The sweep of her gown along the shiny floor was the only sound in the room. “How long has it been since you’ve felt the warm, steady beat of a human heart.”
Angel looked up and gazed at Darla, trapped by her cornflower stare.
Darla stepped closer and gently touched his face, ignoring the way he flinched and shuddered at her touch. She came closer still, tipping her chin up and caressing the frown away from his brow.
“Come,” she said gently and raised one delicate hand to slash across the ivory curve of her breasts.
Blood pearled along her bosom and Angel jerked.
“No,” he cried and this story sucks.ng
The third in the Tara/Willow arc that began with Secrets Not Long Buried and was followed by A Butterfly Dream of Sand and Sky.
"The dream was a story, an ancient tale that
had some meaning, but was now, to Vijaya,
ill-understood." -- The City of Dreadful Night
The Aftermath: a Fairytale
Once upon a time, because every story must begin in a time that isn't now, in a town far, far away, because stories such as this should never occur nearby, the world ended.
That is to say that once upon a time that isn't now, in a place that isn't here, things stopped. Which isn't so much of a surprise when you consider that all things that begin must end. Somewhere. Somehow. Somewhen. And it's important for you to know that this all happened, this apocalypse -- or maybe that's too strong a word. Anyway, it's important that this, ceasing, happened somewhere else.
So, somewhere else in the world a brave knight battled an evil queen or maybe it was a wicked witch. Yes, that sounds better; but perhaps that isn't the right story, either. Or maybe it is, only you've never heard it told properly. So, I'll begin again because it's important that you know the truth about the way things happened.
Now, once upon a time there was a brave Knight destined to battle a Wicked Witch. The knight was very fair, long brown hair and beautiful blue -- well, of course the knight was a girl. Surely, you've heard it told this way at least once? No? Well, this isn’t Cinderella and I'm telling you truth now. If you're not sure you want to believe just remember what they say: Truth is stranger than fiction.
Now. The Knight, the girl-knight, brown used to be blonde hair, the kindest blue eyes and a smile that would spread across her face like warm molasses. And she was good. It's important to know that, so be sure you remember; she was good.
The Knight was fair and brave, if a little shy, but she was good and when the day came that she was to face the Wicked Witch -- You mean you hadn't heard that part? What's to tell? Your guardians didn't tell you this story very well, did they? They've left out all of the important bits.
The knight was shy and she stuttered when she was nervous. Why, yes, you're right. When she was nervous the Knight stuttered. Like you. They say the Witch did too, once upon a time.
Of course, Wicked Witch. What other witch is there in this story? Ah, I see. I forgot about her. With the pink dress and the bubble and the wand? Yes. Well. Isn’t that sweet. To tell you the truth, and truth is important; so, to tell you the truth, that movie isn’t half wrong. Witches aren’t always wicked, but little girls who lisp and stutter aren’t always good. And that’s truth.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The knight was fair, brave and good, and she was destined to battle a very wicked witch with fire-black hair and milk white skin. Who? The witch? Yes, she was beautiful. That’s another sometimes lie that people like to tell. But you’ve seen Snow White.
Once upon a time there was a fair and brave knight. She was beautiful and good and kind. She had hair like spun gold and ocean blue eyes. Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, her hair was brown.
Now, this fair and brave knight once loved a beautiful milk white girl with glossy lips and shiny red hair. Yes, the wicked witch had milk white skin, too, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. Now, they are one and the same. But then? Well, then potential presents itself as many things and we can't always see the path. Anyway, the fair and brave knight once loved a beautiful milk white girl with glossy lips and shiny red hair. This beautiful red and white girl was sweet, although not as sweet as the fair and brave knight, and she was mostly good.
Yes, mostly.
She was mostly good, but there was something inside of her. Something dark and wanting, hungry and large. Now, as the story goes the fair and brave knight knew something of magic and she shared this with the beautiful red and white girl. But all that she gave was never enough and one day the red and white girl went too far.
You see there once was a girl, a Champion, who lived in a town, not our town, another town far away. This girl was good and kind and strong. One day long ago, the girl died to save the world and the beautiful red and white -- What? How did she die? Well, saving the world obviously, but that’s another story.
So, this girl died to save the world and the beautiful red and white girl, who loved this Champion very much decided that she didn’t like that The Champion had died and so she gathered up her magic, which was very strong, and she cast a spell to bring her back. Only the spell didn’t quite work and The Champion came back all wrong. So the red and white girl got rid of the wrong thing that had come back. Yes, she was still beautiful, but not like she was before. There was a seed, you see. And a need and then one day her eyes went black and so did her hair, and isn't that always the way to tell the good from the bad. Anyway, there was a fire and the wrong thing burned and so did The Key, and the man who would have loved her.
This is always where things get confused because no one seems to remember exactly what happend. How the fire got started, how the heart was destroyed - and no, I don’t know what heart or whose, and how the beautiful red and white girl lost the love of The Brave and Fair Knight.
But it happened and it’s like I said, everthing that begins must end.
*
The story goes that the Brave and Fair Knight remembered things that hadn't yet happened. Whispers of before-memory that curled along the nape of her neck, the itcy, crawly feeling that sometimes raises goosebumps on the back of the neck. And this girl was the mind and the spirit, the heart and the hand. A beautiful, brave girl who would be a Champion after all others had fallen away. But she was resistant to the idea because deep in the most secret places of her heart she believed in the good, true, fine ideals that should, but rarely do, make up the world. Kind hearted, clear as glass and true as steel.
But, alas, sometimes there are things that must be done. By someone and when there was no one left she became the chosen. And on a dark night, Hare moon waning, things fell into place like tumblers in a lock and the promise of years and the prophecy of dreams was destined to come true.
There was an unruly rumbling beneath her fingernails, a warning like heaven. Or, maybe, it was closer to Hell - a wild blue rumbling that stretched.
Once upon a time . . .
In the end she cast a spell to bind and break the Earth. Fire and smoke and Willow spilt upon the ground. She who ran without ever walking. Tara understood the risks, the razor edge line required to skip and not fall. Those who never learn always break on impact. Shatter like the finest crystal on a high note. Unable to sustain, as high as they can go without ever leaving the ground.
in a town far, far away . . .
Tara cast a circle, rosemary and seasalt, and purified it with sage. Willow's unholy-red hair tangled in cobweb and wrapped in black cloth lying in the center. The bundle was tied tight with silver cord. Silver cord to bind the chaos closed.
There was no one for miles, just the stars, bright in the sky, and the nearly absent moon. Hare moon, waning. Just before midnight the candles that borderd the circle flared.
Willow.
The net had been cast wide. Touching the Earth and skimming planes where only thought existed. Imagine the finest iridescent thread, mesh tightly woven, breaking beneath Tara's hands and then Willow spilt upon the ground.
Willow. Wild and Unruly. Tara felt it in her chest, she couldn't breathe. She felt it in her head, she couldn't think. Her hands shook, her vision dimming as she tried to chant around the knot in her throat. Willow in her head, her voice the chaotic ring of too many bells at mass.
Make of it what you will.
Eve is a girl. Of that everyone is sure. Or at least they were.
Two legs, two arms, a pretty, funny mouth, cute nose and she squeals -- shrill girl sounds -- when she’s excited. She is also in possession of all the requisite girl parts: Breasts, cunt, slender bones, contradictory nature and devious brain.
When Eve was born, sliding out of her mother all squirmy gray and blue, misshapen and obviously female (even though the doctors and ultrasounds guaranteed a boy), Belinda, Eve’s mother, stayed in the hospital for a week amidst obnoxiously pink and white flowers to recover from the shock of not having birthed a son. Richard, equally horrified, retired to his country club to be comforted by his compatriots and the tall, leggy blonde who manned the bar. She was a great bartender and an even better lay . He thought her name might have been Megan or Heather or, maybe, Wendy with an i. That is, until she very matter-of-factly said that her name was Evette and that she had gotten her Master’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering at UC Irvine and was in the PhD program at MIT. Bartending was just for kicks and the old guys tipped well.
She said all of that right before dumping his drink - bourbon on the rocks - into his lap. It was her last day and he should at least know the name of the women he fucked. The next morning Richard named his brand new baby daughter after the ballsy, brainy bar maid with big tits and long legs.
One week later Belinda and Richard brought the newly named Eve home. They tucked her into the nursery hurridly redecorated from blue sailboats and red fire trucks to pink ballerinas and fluffy brown teddy bears. Someone even threw in fuzzy yellow ducks for good measure and promptly forgot her. Mostly.
Belinda, intent upon being a picture perfect mother, arranged playdates and bought dresses edged in yards of lace. When it was time, she joined the PTA and organized the kitchen staff in baking cookies and brownies, the occasional cake or pie. She made an excellent, if slightly uninvolved den mother by the time Eve was old enough to become a Girl Scout.
Belinda even joined a Book Club with some of the other mothers which she hosted in the large downstairs sitting room once every other month.
Belinda always called Eve down from her pink and yellow room, made the poor dear curtsy and preen and pass plates of cookies and finger sandwiches. Belinda showed her off and then sent her on her way. Into the garden to play or up to her pink room with it’s mountains of stuffed animals. Eve hunkered down on the floor and pulled out the Hot Wheels and Tonka trucks that the staff smuggled to her and waited until Mama sent the other mothers home. Then she hid under the bed and waited until Mama had gone from roaring drunk, staggering through the house smashing things and shrieking Eve’s name, to placidly high. Then Eve went out to the garden to play with Jorge, the beautiful golden retriever that her father had named Buddy.
Originally intended for the Darla ficathon but never quite finished. Scraped together and submitted Eternal Return about an hour after it was due.
Rome, 1901
“You know, she had the most delicious scream.”
Darla blew gently on the cold window and traced hearts in the patch of fog left behind on the glass. Carefully, she drew an X over each and every heart.
“Italians are such great screamers,” she said, gently flicking her tongue against the front edge of her teeth. “They’re so passionate. Reminds you that death and sex can sound remarkably similar, don’t you think? You used to be like that, Angelus. Passionate. Now look at you. Pathetic.”
She turned into the room, bathed in the light of a dozen candles and moonlight streaming through the rain-spattered glass.
Drusilla crouched on the floor near the grand piano, idly stroking the leg of the man cringing on the bench above her. Drusilla wanted to eat him, but Darla wouldn’t allow it. “We need ambiance,” she had said. “We need to set the mood.”
The poor gentleman, grey-faced and weak, ignored the seeping holes just above his collar and played steadily, his dancing fingers never missing a bar. He played, not the best Darla had ever heard, but well enough to justify his continued existence.
“What are you doing here?” Angel wavered in the doorway, dark and forbidding, lacking the light of malice that Darla so adored.
“We’ve brought you a gift,” Darla lisped, tipping her blonde, curly head and smiling.
A girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, lay curled in the center of the wide bed at the room’s far edge. She had dark hair and dark eyes; a pretty thing with dusky skin and full lips. Her dark eyes stared up at the ceiling, blind, her neck arched too far backward.
“Unfortunatly, I got a little peckish.”
“I’m hungry, too, but grand mummy won’t let me have a bite,” Drusilla whined from her place on the floor. Her nimble fingers plucked lightly at the pants leg beside her. The pianist played steadily on.
“We’ve come to help you, Angelus. To save you.” Darla moved forward slowly, her arms raised to welcome Angel home. “There’s another maid locked up somewhere downstairs.”
“Tight as a mouse,” Drusilla chimed in.
Angel stumbled away, moving heavily along the edge of the room to avoid Darla. His eyes darting away to the floor, the window covered in crossed out hearts, the candles and the man bent over the ivory piano keys, anywhere except at Darla.
“Darla. Why are you here?”
“I told you. I’ve come to save you.”
“You’ve been all corrupted,” Drusilla sing-songed from the floor. “Those nasty Gypsy bitches put a little worm in your head and Grandmummy has come to take it out.”
Darla smiled.
“How long has it been, Angelus? Since you’ve fed.” Darla moved closer. The sweep of her gown along the shiny floor was the only sound in the room. “How long has it been since you’ve felt the warm, steady beat of a human heart.”
Angel looked up and gazed at Darla, trapped by her cornflower stare.
Darla stepped closer and gently touched his face, ignoring the way he flinched and shuddered at her touch. She came closer still, tipping her chin up and caressing the frown away from his brow.
“Come,” she said gently and raised one delicate hand to slash across the ivory curve of her breasts.
Blood pearled along her bosom and Angel jerked.
“No,” he cried and this story sucks.ng
The third in the Tara/Willow arc that began with Secrets Not Long Buried and was followed by A Butterfly Dream of Sand and Sky.
"The dream was a story, an ancient tale that
had some meaning, but was now, to Vijaya,
ill-understood." -- The City of Dreadful Night
Once upon a time, because every story must begin in a time that isn't now, in a town far, far away, because stories such as this should never occur nearby, the world ended.
That is to say that once upon a time that isn't now, in a place that isn't here, things stopped. Which isn't so much of a surprise when you consider that all things that begin must end. Somewhere. Somehow. Somewhen. And it's important for you to know that this all happened, this apocalypse -- or maybe that's too strong a word. Anyway, it's important that this, ceasing, happened somewhere else.
So, somewhere else in the world a brave knight battled an evil queen or maybe it was a wicked witch. Yes, that sounds better; but perhaps that isn't the right story, either. Or maybe it is, only you've never heard it told properly. So, I'll begin again because it's important that you know the truth about the way things happened.
Now, once upon a time there was a brave Knight destined to battle a Wicked Witch. The knight was very fair, long brown hair and beautiful blue -- well, of course the knight was a girl. Surely, you've heard it told this way at least once? No? Well, this isn’t Cinderella and I'm telling you truth now. If you're not sure you want to believe just remember what they say: Truth is stranger than fiction.
Now. The Knight, the girl-knight, brown used to be blonde hair, the kindest blue eyes and a smile that would spread across her face like warm molasses. And she was good. It's important to know that, so be sure you remember; she was good.
The Knight was fair and brave, if a little shy, but she was good and when the day came that she was to face the Wicked Witch -- You mean you hadn't heard that part? What's to tell? Your guardians didn't tell you this story very well, did they? They've left out all of the important bits.
The knight was shy and she stuttered when she was nervous. Why, yes, you're right. When she was nervous the Knight stuttered. Like you. They say the Witch did too, once upon a time.
Of course, Wicked Witch. What other witch is there in this story? Ah, I see. I forgot about her. With the pink dress and the bubble and the wand? Yes. Well. Isn’t that sweet. To tell you the truth, and truth is important; so, to tell you the truth, that movie isn’t half wrong. Witches aren’t always wicked, but little girls who lisp and stutter aren’t always good. And that’s truth.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The knight was fair, brave and good, and she was destined to battle a very wicked witch with fire-black hair and milk white skin. Who? The witch? Yes, she was beautiful. That’s another sometimes lie that people like to tell. But you’ve seen Snow White.
Once upon a time there was a fair and brave knight. She was beautiful and good and kind. She had hair like spun gold and ocean blue eyes. Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, her hair was brown.
Now, this fair and brave knight once loved a beautiful milk white girl with glossy lips and shiny red hair. Yes, the wicked witch had milk white skin, too, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. Now, they are one and the same. But then? Well, then potential presents itself as many things and we can't always see the path. Anyway, the fair and brave knight once loved a beautiful milk white girl with glossy lips and shiny red hair. This beautiful red and white girl was sweet, although not as sweet as the fair and brave knight, and she was mostly good.
Yes, mostly.
She was mostly good, but there was something inside of her. Something dark and wanting, hungry and large. Now, as the story goes the fair and brave knight knew something of magic and she shared this with the beautiful red and white girl. But all that she gave was never enough and one day the red and white girl went too far.
You see there once was a girl, a Champion, who lived in a town, not our town, another town far away. This girl was good and kind and strong. One day long ago, the girl died to save the world and the beautiful red and white -- What? How did she die? Well, saving the world obviously, but that’s another story.
So, this girl died to save the world and the beautiful red and white girl, who loved this Champion very much decided that she didn’t like that The Champion had died and so she gathered up her magic, which was very strong, and she cast a spell to bring her back. Only the spell didn’t quite work and The Champion came back all wrong. So the red and white girl got rid of the wrong thing that had come back. Yes, she was still beautiful, but not like she was before. There was a seed, you see. And a need and then one day her eyes went black and so did her hair, and isn't that always the way to tell the good from the bad. Anyway, there was a fire and the wrong thing burned and so did The Key, and the man who would have loved her.
This is always where things get confused because no one seems to remember exactly what happend. How the fire got started, how the heart was destroyed - and no, I don’t know what heart or whose, and how the beautiful red and white girl lost the love of The Brave and Fair Knight.
But it happened and it’s like I said, everthing that begins must end.
*
The story goes that the Brave and Fair Knight remembered things that hadn't yet happened. Whispers of before-memory that curled along the nape of her neck, the itcy, crawly feeling that sometimes raises goosebumps on the back of the neck. And this girl was the mind and the spirit, the heart and the hand. A beautiful, brave girl who would be a Champion after all others had fallen away. But she was resistant to the idea because deep in the most secret places of her heart she believed in the good, true, fine ideals that should, but rarely do, make up the world. Kind hearted, clear as glass and true as steel.
But, alas, sometimes there are things that must be done. By someone and when there was no one left she became the chosen. And on a dark night, Hare moon waning, things fell into place like tumblers in a lock and the promise of years and the prophecy of dreams was destined to come true.
There was an unruly rumbling beneath her fingernails, a warning like heaven. Or, maybe, it was closer to Hell - a wild blue rumbling that stretched.
Once upon a time . . .
In the end she cast a spell to bind and break the Earth. Fire and smoke and Willow spilt upon the ground. She who ran without ever walking. Tara understood the risks, the razor edge line required to skip and not fall. Those who never learn always break on impact. Shatter like the finest crystal on a high note. Unable to sustain, as high as they can go without ever leaving the ground.
in a town far, far away . . .
Tara cast a circle, rosemary and seasalt, and purified it with sage. Willow's unholy-red hair tangled in cobweb and wrapped in black cloth lying in the center. The bundle was tied tight with silver cord. Silver cord to bind the chaos closed.
There was no one for miles, just the stars, bright in the sky, and the nearly absent moon. Hare moon, waning. Just before midnight the candles that borderd the circle flared.
Willow.
The net had been cast wide. Touching the Earth and skimming planes where only thought existed. Imagine the finest iridescent thread, mesh tightly woven, breaking beneath Tara's hands and then Willow spilt upon the ground.
Willow. Wild and Unruly. Tara felt it in her chest, she couldn't breathe. She felt it in her head, she couldn't think. Her hands shook, her vision dimming as she tried to chant around the knot in her throat. Willow in her head, her voice the chaotic ring of too many bells at mass.
Make of it what you will.
