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Journal Relocated [07 Jan 2008|07:34pm] New Entries on InsaneJournal Humph!

Masquerade [04 Jan 2008|07:45pm] http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1266841.html Humph!

Stones in His Pockets [03 Jan 2008|10:45pm] The last flights out of Baton Rouge weren't until later. But even at 9:30pm, the place got kind of empty. Here and there, passengers dotted the airport chairs, each waiting for boarding time, each reading a Tom Clancy book or watching CNN headlines until their heads lolled back. Shopkeepers rolled down the gates on their snack counters. Custodians ran vacuums over the carpet, sucking up crumbs that fell out of nab wrappers. A solitary blonde hurried along the concourse, passing gates six and seven. Her carry-on bag traveled on tiny wheels. She tried to keep her ankles ahead of it, as if she couldn't afford a run in her pantyhose. At the eighth gate, she steered it into the row of chairs and sat down next to a waxy plant. She sighed and checked her ticket. Ten minutes until boarding call. "Perfect," she murmured. She was wearing a trim business suit, complete with blazer and skirt. It was a conservative shade of dark blue, but the details were too cutesy to be professional. For instance, there was a cat-shaped pin on her lapel, and her shoes had little bows on them. Reaching into her neckline, she heaved an impressive mass of blonde hair over her shoulder. It was long and wavy and half-obscured her face. She rooted through her clutch and fished out a tube of dark lipstick, which she applied meticulously before loudly smacking her lips. "I hate late flights," she proclaimed to no one in particular. Half absorbed in an issue of Navy Times that he'd been surprised to find at the airport bookshop, GW Robichaux hadn't paid the blonde any attention until she sat down beside him. The paper was something he hadn't read since he'd moved to Vegas and most of the issues of the niche publication hadn't changed much, mostly the same old gripes against the same people. Still, it had been something to read and enabled the former marine to indulge a bit of nostalgia about the 'good old days' back when he'd actually worn the uniform. "I'm sorry?" he asked at first, then realized what she must have said and nodded. "They're no fun, but at least it's a direct flight. I always hated layovers myself." Having now actually looked up to see who had adressed him, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in curiosity at the outfit. It was an odd mix of professional and whimsical; whoever she was, she definitely marched to the beat of her own drummer. She was cute, too. "Headin' out t' Sin City on business or pleasure?" "Mmm...business," she decided, as if she'd just made up her mind right then. The blonde stowed her lipstick away and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She noticed a pick in her pantyhose and plucked at her kneecap. "Oh man. I can never wear these a full day without ruining 'em. I should just go without and look like a floosy." Back into the clutch she went, this time coming out armed with clear nailpolish. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed some on the little snag. "My grandma taught me this. Keeps it from getting worse." She blew on the polish. "What were you out here for? Holiday visiting?" "You pluck at it yer just gonna make it worse," GW observed. Helene had always had the same problem, he remembered with a smile. Fortunately she'd only had to wear them for church or other formal events, as she'd wear scrubs to work for her job as a nurse. "Yeah, I came down to visit family. They're all down 'roundabouts Crowley mostly." There was something familar to GW about the way the blonde talked, but he chalked it up to his imagination. After all, he'd never met the woman before just now. One thing was for certain though; she wasn't from around here originally. "Business huh? Try not t' spend all the time workin'. Vegas is a town built fer fun." ( Going Home ) Humph!

On Oliver (in so many ways) [28 Dec 2007|11:59pm] ( Hannah's Inner Monologue ) Humph!

Keeping the Undead Alive [18 Dec 2007|10:05pm] The desert is a quiet place, especially at night. One would think there would be animal noises, or the wind rustling the sand, or the flutter of bat wings, or the slithering of a snake or lizard. Maybe on most nights those noises do fill out the silence. But not this night. It is also common for a dying man to gasp, each breath harder to draw than the last. Or to moan or groan in pain, or plead for mercy, or to pray for help and salvation. Maybe he’d even struggle to crawl from the side of the road to the road itself, fighting not only to live, but in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to help. Most men might, but Tristan was not any man. Many would argue that he wasn’t a man at all. He had no breath, as a vampire. But he had pain. His moans were stifled in his throat, though he wished he could cry. He was past crying in pain or anger or loss. Damas, his beloved cat, was dead. The same perpetrator of the cat’s murder also shot a poisoned arrow through Tristan’s shoulder. The poison leached into his blood, paralyzing him, making him weak, making him want to sleep. Tristan feared that if he closed his eyes, he’d never awake again. Worse, that he’d see, and then feel, the graceful warmth of the sun, frying him into ashes. Tristan didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t sure how he could stop it. At least his worst fear wasn’t coming true. Tristan wouldn’t die alone. Damas was in his arms. "Shhh... It'll be okay." ( It's Not Time ) "On a count of three," Hannah whispered. "One... two..." Humph!

Oliver and Hannah [12 Dec 2007|08:43pm] Four a.m. He knew because the digital clock on the bedside table had red numbers, and every time a minute ticked past, he could see the shape of them change as he lay on top of the covers and failed to fall asleep. He was tired, he supposed, but every time he closed his eyes he just couldn't manage to drop off. Not enough to drink, maybe. Maybe if he lay here for long enough, he'd go to sleep. Either that or it would start to get early and the sun would come up instead. Oliver sat up and rubbed his face, looking balefully at the clock. Maybe if he unplugged it, that would help. Why did the numbers have to be red, for fuck's sake? Someone should look into inventing a clock with a more soothing color scheme for the digits. That would be a good direction to put some research money in. He should ask his broker in the morning for information about companies checking that out. The spellcaster flopped back on the bed, then rolled onto his stomach. Sleep was usually not this long in coming. He was stubborn, though. He could wait it out. Hannah, on the other hand, could not. Impatience had taken on a whole new meaning with immortality. She heard once that vampires were incredibly patient creatures, because they knew they had all the time in the world. But to Hannah, that impossibly long stretch of eternity made things all the worse. Seconds, minutes, hours, days… none of them meant much. In her life, Hannah had been a list girl. Armed with spiral notepads and multicolored pens, she had written things down simply for the joy of scratching them off. On Earth, the little squares on her calendars could be slashed through in red ink, and then the pages torn away. Now there were no red letter days, no end point in sight. It was like being a child again… Ants in her pants, and a million days to go until Christmas. For what was she so impatient? Another event worth marking the passage of time. For some reason, knowing about Oliver gave that to her. The eerie, red glow of his clock lit the room. Hannah sat in an armchair, her knees pressed together and her ankles spread apart. She bit her thumb. You shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t. The tandem voices in her head belonged to ancient beings, awesome in their power, but to Hannah, they sounded more and more like gnats. If only she could swat them away. Slowly, the body caught up with the spirit, and Hannah’s weight settled onto the chair. The cushion creaked. Oliver was not, however, asleep. He was merely lying on his stomach with his arm over his eyes as if that was going to help, keeping his face turned stubbornly away from the maddening clock, whose glowing digits actually seemed to hum, they were so bright. Yeah, he was going to unplug it in the morning, because if he didn't it was going to end up smashed to bits in the parking lot after he threw it off of his balcony. Counting sheep was supposed to work, wasn't it? Not that he'd ever tried. He'd never needed to. Maybe it was leftover jet lag. He'd always hated flying. Dinner had tasted the way it should, which meant nothing had disagreed with his digestion. So why... The creak came to him through the static of his thoughts, breaking them off cleanly in the middle, and he moved his arm a fraction away from his eyes before opening them a crack. The room was dark, and there was no other noise to follow the creak. Christ, that was all he needed, to start hearing things. He shifted on the bed, not moving very much, only as if he meant to turn over. He ended up on his opposite side, looking at the clock again, then away from it, towards the wall. Nothing seemed to be moving. The mage rolled onto his back at last, opening his eyes more fully and peering into the gloom. If he was hearing things, he'd deal with it. At least he knew he wasn't drunk enough to hallucinate. He really hated creaking noises. “Oliver!” The whisper was sharp and quick, like an aural slice through the air. “Are you awake?” ( Did You Follow Me Home, Pixie? ) ( Story Time ) ( Cause and Effect ) ( The Prize (Adult Content) ) Humph!

Pranks the Dead Play [28 Nov 2007|03:18pm] Captain’s Log, You know what gets my goat? I’ll tell you. It’s Rhonda the Waitress. You remember the one. She’s got the frizzy red hair and the pencil-chewing fetish and the penchant (I learned a new word!) for seducing truck drivers on their way through town. This one time, I heard a rumor that she takes ‘em to a room at the K motel to do the deed. Ha! Like that’s any more private than her trailer! You can see the parking lot from everywhere. Probably even space. So. The same week I escaped the mortal coil, Verlie held a big Pie Night in my honor. Everything was on the house. A bunch of old ladies from the Casserole Brigade and Bingo Night helped her bake the pies (which was really touching after the way I completely schooled them every Tuesday night at the Community Center). Well, during the event, I lurked… I couldn’t help it! I didn’t have a real funeral, so this was the best opportunity I was gonna get to see who showed up, so I’d know whose trailer I could cross off my list of hauntings. Anyway, there I was, taking inventory of the pies and wishing like crazy I could eat one, when Rhonda crept into the kitchen like some kind of Bond girl reject and stuck her fat finger one of my memoriam pies. Then, when Verlie couldn’t serve it, the cow saved the day by volunteering to take it home and eat the whole thing herself. It was even a pecan one. Lately I’ve been pondering whether or not it’s breaking any big-time rules to pull a poltergeist on her. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be doing the ‘geisting myself… More like commissioning one to take a mini-vacation in Rhonda’s trailer. I’ve already spent all my pranking ideas. I short-sheeted her bed. I put some plastic wrap under her toilet seat. I used her toothbrush to address a certain itch that I pretended to have. All of this (mainly the first two parts) lends to her suspicion that she’s going insane. I’d like to take it up a notch. Do you think poltergeist is going too far? I await any insights. This is Hannah, signing off. Humph!

Phases [26 Nov 2007|10:30am] Just before closing, a tiny blonde girl slipped into the Lighthouse bar on tiptoe. All the chairs were upturned on tabletops. There were rushing noises, like a broom sweeping up trash, but no one to be seen. She put a crumpled envelope on the register. Inside it were a handwritten note and a gold necklace with pendants suspended on the chain. Each represented a different phase of the moon. Before anyone could see her, she left on quiet feet and disappeared into the night air. ( For Julie ) Humph!

The Messenger [21 Nov 2007|03:46pm] ( Captain's Log ) Humph!

[20 Nov 2007|06:10pm] ( A Book of Poetry by Oliver's Door, Opened to This Page ) Humph!

Ariel [07 Nov 2007|06:04pm] Ariel Fleming was nine years old when she died. Afterwards the police came and turned her small, pink bedroom into a crime scene. Everything was sifted through, inspected, dusted for prints. Tiny, red hairs were collected from her sheets and put into baggies marked ‘evidence’. A woman fit the key into her diary and read that, too. Had she been alive at the time, the little girl might’ve been embarrassed at all those people pawing over her secret things, even the underpants in her clothes basket. Afterwards, her father packed up suitcases and left in miserable shape. The house sat still for a very long time. Dust collected on the television sets and the food grew mold. Ariel didn’t seem to notice that, just that her parents weren’t here and neither was her puppy. Without the power on, it grew terribly silent in the house at night. She was lonesome and unsure what to do, with no concept of what had happened to her after the pillow came down on her face, pressing. Months passed before anyone saw or touched Ariel again. Then one night after the house settled into its familiar coma-quiet, she felt a hand on her hair. “Shh, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise,” the blonde girl said. She smiled and she was pretty, like a fairy, and her skin looked glitter-golden. “I’m Hannah. I came to walk you home. Are you ready?” Despite having a stranger in the house, Ariel felt relieved that someone had come for her at last. Being forgotten by her Dad was an awful feeling. But she kept her arms wrapped tight around her knees. “This is where we live, but I can’t find my mom. Do you know where she went?” Hannah nodded and held out her hand. Ariel asked next, “Will I see her there?” “Yes,” Hannah lied. Behind her ghost-back she crossed her fingers. In a million eternities, Ariel would never see her mother again, not even after she died in a stark prison cell. She’d be taken to a place where the angels sang in a different key. Ariel’s eyes lit up and she took Hannah’s hand, full of trust. It was a dreadful trick. Hannah hated playing tricks. But sometimes the truth was much too ugly for children. Humph!

[01 Nov 2007|09:18pm] Halloween Thread: Haunted Carnival http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1241529.html Humph!

When In Doubt, Duck and Cover [25 Oct 2007|02:59pm] My name is Hannah Flynn and I used to be a waitress. Now I’m a spirit in unrest. I bet you’re wondering how a sunny girl like me wound up pushing daisies instead of burgers. Well I’ll tell you. I’m employed by the Powers That Be… That’s how I started the last entry in my journal, which I shall forevermore refer to as the Captain’s Log, on account of my lack of personal property. After all, nobody ever saw Jean-Luc Picard scribbling with a pencil and purple paper. Anyway, hearing it, you might say to yourself, my that’s a nice opening line! That girl should keep on using it. In fact, it’s so good, it ought to be a voiceover on a supernatural TV show featuring the afterlife of Hannah Flynn, Ghost. Segue: AAAAAAAHHHH! Were you ever so embarrassed, you wanted to shrivel up and die? Or better yet, go invisible? Lucky me!!! I’m both dead and capable of invisibility. I find that it’s mighty convenient right now, ‘cause I’d rather not, a) be seen, or b) look in a mirror. The PTBs say it’s my fault I got caught up in the spell. I was on the earth-plane when it got cast, and since I was using my old body to be corporeal, it made me susceptible to the magic. I think that’s a bunch of bologna. Those PTBs are always about the blame, and it’s never theirs. So here I am, exposed as The Girl Who’d Turn Into a Hussy If She Got Famous. (Note to self: I’m totally ignoring the most humiliating part of all, which is how I had SEX with a STRANGER!!!!!!!!) There’s some stuff I still don’t get. Like, did it really happen and got erased? Did it ‘never happen’ (but how’s that possible if I remember it)? And finally and most importantly, Does the sex count?! Looks like I turned poor Oliver Jerzyck into a necrophiliac. It guess it’s fitting, since we met in a cemetery and all. (Another note to self: Find out if he remembers what I look like naked.) They said the best thing to do’s pour myself into work and stop walking around, pretending like I’m a regular girl. Easier said than done, when I keep turning into one. I’m about to get a real good assignment. It better be good. Otherwise, I’m never getting the sweet mental image of that guy’s bare ass cheeks out of my head. This is Hannah, signing off. Humph!

Enquiring Minds Want to Know [17 Oct 2007|10:31pm] Like many stars of the Birthright cast, Anna had chosen to live semi-permanently in the posh world of Las Vegas hotels. Searchlight didn’t have anything suitable, and Anna wasn’t about to buy anything in the desert. Her real home was actually in Oklahoma. It was her parents’ farmhouse. She owned it now, along with everything else they had to their names. The hotel she chose was the Four Seasons, on the upper floors of Mandalay Bay. There was no casino below it, and that led to a calmer atmosphere. Despite years spent in Los Angeles trying to make it as an actress, she was still a rural girl at heart. Anna got away from the Birthright convention around five and headed home. By the time she showered, put on comfortable clothes, and room service brought her dinner, it was seven. Her window shades were open to the sky, which faded blue into black earlier all the time. She ran a comb through her hair and watched the traffic from a wingback chair. Up here, it was just a series of red and white lights. Anna’s toes dug into the thick carpet. Orrin felt like he was in a bad spy movie. He'd shown up outside of Anna's hotel just after six, then asked the concierge if 'Miss Finn' was alone. He'd finally taken the elevator, his posture hunched and a pair of sunglasses on against possibly being recognized. The magazine containing the story about his co-star's pictures was rolled up in his back pocket. He cast a look up and down the hall before knocking, wondering if he wasn't throwing himself across a sacrificial altar. If the blonde was going to get wrapped up in some kind of scandal, staying away might be better for his career. Then again, the thought that some...cretin had had their grubby hands all over Anna didn't sit well with him. He was just egotistical enough to know that he'd been rocking her world lately. Orrin adjusted his shades, rapped on the door in a businesslike fashion. He could make himself a nuisance if he had to. ( Throwing a Fit ) [Thread: Open to Orrin & Anna] 1 Stomp |Humph!

[15 Oct 2007|11:49am] The Birthright Crew (Convention Panel Thread) http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1236779.html Humph!

Entertainment Tonight! [05 Oct 2007|08:20pm] Excerpt From Episode Transcript Air Date: October 5, 2011 Hart: Hello, everybody, I’m Mary Hart. Steines: And I’m Mark Steines. Welcome to Entertainment Tonight! Hart: This just in! Is Anna-Nicole Smith alive? New photos have surfaced in the Bahamas, showing a sunbathing blonde that bears a striking resemblance to the infamous plus-size model. Is it just a hoax? Later on in the show, friends and family speak out about the photos and what they could mean for custody of Smith’s daughter. Steines: Also, we have the first television interview with CSI: Toronto star Joshua Jackson. He’s back on the set after a near-fatal boating accident last Spring. We’ll show you the exclusive behind-the-scenes footage. Hart: But first, scandalous photos of Birthright actress Anna Finn have leaked onto the internet. The images show the actress posing nude for a series of racy Polaroids. They appear to have been taken on set. A representative for the actress has confirmed that the photographs are real. Hart: The pictures surfaced just after writer Mickey Rubles reportedly quit the series. OZTv executives wouldn’t comment, but a source close to Rubles told ET that the up-and-coming writer received an offer to work for rival network FX’s supernatural hit, Wraith. The source also indicated that Rubles might’ve released the photos himself. Hart: Amidst rumors of romantic involvement between Finn and Rubles, ET tracked down the writer outside the Bellagio resort in Las Vegas. It was four o’clock in the morning before Rubles got back to his hotel suite. Paparazzi: Mickey... Mickey! Where’d you get the pictures of Anna? Rubles: What? Paparazzi: Where’d you get the pictures of Anna? Rubles: Nah... nah... ask Anna why she gave them to me. Steines: Our ET reporters took a look at the actress’s resume. It includes a string of local commercials early in her career, a contract to promote Thighmaster exercise equipment, and a stint working at a Hooters restaurant in Los Angeles, where she was reportedly recruited to audition for the role of waitress Hannah Flynn on Birthright. Ms. Finn wasn’t available for comment. Humph!

If The House Is A Rockin' [03 Oct 2007|03:25pm] If you ever drove through Searchlight, Nevada on your way to someplace else, you’d notice first that from east to west and north to south, that town was nothing but a trailer park sitting in the dust. RVs, single-wides, double-wides… Searchlight had ‘em all by the dozen and not much else. Before 2008, anybody looking to move into the great, desert outdoors would’ve found that a detractor and kept on trucking to the next zip code. That was before Birthright: The Series. It was a great, unsolved mystery to the locals. Why had OZTv picked their miniature town, of all places, to shoot their sinners’ show about the supernatural? It didn’t make a lick of sense to anybody. There wasn’t a thing around, other than the Nugget’s hash browns, that had any kind of charm. Those locals had spent their whole lives in Searchlight and they could admit it. They were just too stubborn to pack up and leave. Despite the town’s lack of anything resembling livability, the locals defended their territory and fought off the ‘Hollywood Menace’. Oh, those citizens rallied and picketed and wrote letters to the Senator, who was even from Searchlight. The truth was they could’ve protested ‘til they were blue in the face and it wouldn’t have stopped the network’s momentum. For every angry citizen that protested, there was some broke schmuck happy to hand over his trailer and his land to an Executive willing to pay top price. A lot of those trailers had been converted into another kind. The TV star kind. One of them was bright blue… ‘Well, the house is a rockin’ Don't bother knockin’ Well, the house is a rockin’ Don't bother knockin’ If the house is a rockin’ Don't bother, come on in! Kick off your shoes, gotta loosen the blues This old house ain't got nothing to lose Seen a lotta years, start spreading the news We got real old floor, come on baby, shake ‘em loose’ Anna Finn sat in a bathrobe at her vanity table. There were so many light bulbs around the thing, she practically had sunburn. With half an hour to go before her hair-and-makeup call, she had some time to kill. Stevie Ray Vaughan kept good company. She thumbed through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and found a dog-eared page on facial workouts. Supposedly doing these exercises twice a day would keep her from getting wrinkles. Anna propped the magazine against her mirror and studied the photographs. “Well, if it works for Julia…” Off she launched into a series of facial contortions. Pucker-mouth, relax. Pucker-mouth, relax. Left eyebrow. Right eyebrow. O-face. Relax. Carefully tucking his script into the back pocket of his jeans, Orrin Jeffords picked up the two coffees he'd fixed in his trailer and pretended to wander outside in an aimless fashion. The coffee on-set was so bad that he'd finally bought a coffeemaker of his own. If they were going to insist on such long hours while filming, he could at least drink something that didn't make his stomach turn inside out with distaste. No shirt today, it was too hot, even for the beginning of October. He'd been trying to pick up something of a tan out here, but the higher-ups kept bitching at him about it, saying it was all wrong for his character. Like they knew shit about characterization, or acting, or any of it. He'd done Shakespeare, for Christ's sake, and gotten good reviews at it. For all they knew, Chekhov was just the guy who helped fly the Enterprise. Then again, if he'd stuck to plays, he wouldn't be enjoying his current level of success, so he'd tried to tone down the snobbery in interviews lately. The first rule in television acting was, Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Orrin sipped at the first cup of coffee as he continued his falsely casual trek across the open spaces between trailers, exchanging polite nods with several extras and other behind-the-scenes people. There were three steps between the sandy earth and Anna's trailer door. Orrin put one cup on the narrow railing, then rapped lightly on the doorjamb. The script in his pocket would be a good cover if anyone else turned up. Rehearsing, that was what they were doing. She was helping him with his next scenes, which likely would prove to be difficult. All part of the business. Knock, knock, knock. ( Don't Bother, Come On In ) ( A Little Clandestine (Adult Content: OMG Sexuality?!) ) Humph!

Where Are Your Wings? [22 Sep 2007|02:49pm] St. Hyacinth’s Cemetery Portland, Maine September 21, 2011 Once upon a time, Hannah saw only headstones in cemeteries. In her tiny hometown, cemeteries were unremarkable places. At nine years old, she had stepped over a chain-strung fence to sneak inside one. Once she got up the nerve to explore, it was a terrible disappointment to discover that the superstitious charm of Hollywood wasn’t there. There were no elaborate mausoleums, no crumbling crypts or nocturnal creatures to haunt them, and certainly no well-tended family plots to give her romantic thoughts about life after death and love everlasting. What that cemetery had in abundance was red, white, and blue patriot flags with the star shapes fading into obscurity. There were also bunches of frumpy silk wreaths, probably purchased on discount. In Searchlight, the situation had been no better. The cemetery was a barren piece of gravelly land, each grave an awkward mound anointed with an iron cross. It was ironic that a vampire-infested town had the most pitiful lawn of eternal rest she ever saw. But oh, that wasn’t the case in St. Hyacinth’s. It was a gorgeous place to sleep, she thought. The oak trees were old and strong, their branches leafy green. Ancestors had bought up plots and gated them in with ironworks so that for generations to come, relatives could be laid to rest alongside them. It was a nice gesture. It was also a noisy cemetery. Here and there, spirits perched on headstones with their chins resting on their see-through hands, bemoaning doctored wills and scandalous weddings and life endings all too abrupt. Corpses might not move, but spirits could most certainly roll in their graves. Hannah had a purpose for being there. His name was Oliver Jerzyck, and it just so happened that Oliver lived in Nevada. According to her otherworldly sources, Oliver was on a visit to his deceased father’s grave, and the experience wasn’t settling too well with him. She begged a wardrobe change for the encounter. It was important to look like a human girl, after all, especially when Oliver wasn’t to know his visitor was a ghost or an agent of higher powers. Wearing a navy blue pea coat buttoned up tight, Hannah waited for him in the not-quite-silence, pretending to admire his grandmother’s choice of angelic statuary. Oliver picked his way through the ornate headstones and the well-crafted marble cherubs, a cigarette in one hand as he fastened the top buttons of his coat with the other. September in Maine was cool, and the grass was damp from an early-afternoon rain. He hadn't been here in years, not since he'd flunked out of Northwestern and showed up drunk to do little more than sit on the well-tended turf and stare at the name carved into the headstone. Nathe was buried here too, and he supposed that when Amelia died she'd be interred close to her husband and her son. Not him, though, he wanted to be cremated. Better to scatter whatever was left of him to the winds than to plant him in the earth like some obscene, ill-fated flower. There would be no huge marble marker for him. Random thoughts. Morbid thoughts, wondering if his bitch of a mother would even bother to attend if she outlived him. That'd be a nice final fuck you, to have his remains blow back in her face. The tips of the angel wings came into sight, and the spell-caster paused, dragging on his smoke. He'd allowed himself one steadying drink before coming out here. He wished he'd had more. The day was cold, and on the inside, he felt colder. He didn't even have to see the inscription to remember what it said; Saul Wendell Jerzyck October 24, 1960 - November 18, 1992 Devoted Father, Beloved Son "Devoted," Oliver muttered, then finally closed the distance between himself and the headstone. "Hi, Dad," he said, his breath visible on the breeze. "You surprised?" ( The Visitor ) Humph!

The Ghost of a Good Thing [07 Sep 2007|12:46am] http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1211773.html Humph!

The Jig Is Up [31 Aug 2007|04:33pm] The sun crested the bleached sky and dove downward, a yellow-white splotch that threw shadows beside the trailers and blinded anyone driving due west. It was one of the last days of August. The air stood still. Nothing moved, even the lizards if they could help it. Hannah missed how those dry days felt when she rubbed moisturizers that smelled of coconut into her elbows and knees, drank water that dribbled off her chin, and let the sun turn her hair blonder piece by piece. Even when she formed a solid self, nothing was uncomfortable anymore. She thought it was funny how pain, left behind, made her nostalgic. She waited in Mallory’s empty driveway for two hours. To pass the time, she kicked at rocks with intermittent success and entertained memories. She thought about taking cokes from Mallory and drilling her about whether or not she cut up her plastic soda rings. She thought about drunk-dialing Byron and listening to Mallory talk about her crushes. Hannah didn’t lack for company in death. Her new station had her escorting dead people from the limbo-place into the ‘great beyond’. Soon, the Powers said, when she could perform with consistency, she’d get to do much more. Like take the dead to Earth with her, so they could settle up and make peace with life and eventually leave it behind. But it was lonely. Strangers called her name. Just as soon as they were friends instead, they were gone. So Hannah sneaked away to spy on her Earth friends as often as possible. You know, to stay abreast of events. Hannah was the nosy sort. Just because her pulse was gone didn’t change anything. Today it was Mallory’s turn. The only reason Mallory hadn't put up a clothesline was because of the sand. Yeah, air-dried clothes smelled better than machine-dried ones, but you never knew when the wind was going to kick up and blow little grainy particles all over everything you were trying to dry. So she was still making trips to the laundry mat once a week, hauling the heavy plastic basket back and forth, because it was easier than having to wash everything all over again. Yard chores this weekend, definitely. She had to take to the trailer with some paint, see if it would cover up the last of the bloodstains. And the mailbox could use a new coat of safety orange, to keep it from getting clipped when Mr. Dandridge exited the park in his boat of a Cadillac. Honestly, the man was, what, seventy and blind as a bat? What did he need all of that vehicle for? The redhead pulled her truck into her driveway, pondering dinner. There were still some leftovers, unless Sonya had eaten them already. But the day had been so hot that she didn't feel like cooking. Maybe they could just have some cold cuts and sandwiches. Meatloaf was always good on bread. Tires crunched over gravel, and Mallory put the brakes on before clicking the radio off. She'd check the fridge and see what was good and what needed throwing out. Ugh, the basket felt heavier than usual. Well, this could be her lame attempt at getting some exercise. Hannah walked up beside her. Watching her struggle with a clothes hamper, she longed for the friend only inches away. She wondered what Mallory’s hair felt like. It was prettiest in the summer. All kinds of colors mixed in and shined like gold around sunset. When the truck door shut, Hannah backed up automatically to let Mallory past. She still did that. To be walked through was a curiosity at first but now it just felt terrible. She only resorted to touching people once in while and then it was a marvel, watching their hands overlap, but on different planes. Hannah wondered if their atoms mixed at all, or if she was like a hologram. “Wish I could give you a hand,” she offered. ( Well... Maybe You Can ) 2 Stomps |Humph!

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