10:27 pm 1/25/13, Walking Away w Cheongdamdong Alice

Step by step

I am going insane

realizing the years I’ve wasted

thinking this was love

and not me settling for a comfortable pain

Did you know?

Were you trying to dissuade me

with distance

with rebuttals

with cheap shots and unkind truths?

Stupid fool

you know the heart only sees that as proof

of being unworthy

of something to strive for

not clues to move on

But something has changed

Maybe distance has made the heart grow stronger

or something equally cliched

Maybe I’m older now

and better now

Maybe I’ve given up on love

and not just given up on you

Maybe I’m tired of waiting for you

to be a better man

and a nicer person

who isn’t going to cut me to ribbons

on some half truth

you half remember from a conversation overheard

in college

A series of shorts

Last night I was feeling creatively restless, and asked my friends on Twitter and Facebook to give me prompts for drabble writing.  If you don't know what a drabble is, and many people don't, it's defined by Wikepedia as a story of exactly 100 words, not including the title.  I know that in fandom, this is absolutely true with whole communities springing up around the art and challenge of writing drabbles.  In other places, however, I've seen this refer to any short work that's under about 500 words.  It's this second, possibly wrong, definition that I was working with last night.  I got some very interesting prompts out of my friends, and one delightfully hilarious and creatively brilliant conversation on Twitter out of it.

I managed to do 100 words exactly for one prompt (The Kremlin), and totally blew up the other two prompts (dead fish & an ornithologist; "what I found on the way to the laundry room in the basement").  I'm sure I could have worked the other two down to 100, I've done it before, but I kinda like what came out.  The question is, will you?



What I found on the way to the laundry room in the basement: Lovely in My Eyes

The Kremlin: In the Shadow of My Father's Kingdom

Dead Fish and an Ornithologist: Copper Gulls

Copper Gulls

This was written in response to a prompt for a self-imposed challenge.  The prompt: dead fish and an ornithologist. go!

---

Keturah turned to her colleagues in disgust, tossing the dead fish at their collected feet. "This is why the birds aren’t eating. You’re feeding them dead fish! What kind of researchers are you?"

"If I may say, Dr. Leeds, with all due respect, they weren’t dead when we gave them to the birds."

Keturah’s brassy eyebrows climbed. "Pardon?"

"I know we seem incompetent, not calling you sooner when we realized we had a problem, but we do know enough to feed this group live fish. We know they don’t eat anything else."

Properly chastised, but too proud to show it, Keturah turned from her colleagues and studied the fish strewn around the outdoor aviary. She knew there had to be something going on. It was more like these birds to overeat when given the opportunity, not peck at their food. They hyper-smart things were--

"Oh."

In the Shadow of My Father's Kingdom

This was written in response to a prompt given to for a self-imposed challenge.  The challenge?  "The Kremlin"

---

The son of a former spy and sometimes assassin, he had always been discreet. After all, he’d witnessed his mother’s "accidental" death at the hands of her husband’s political beliefs when he was five, and had only narrowly escaped the accident himself.

But watching Karina walk away, with her firm but sad "No" still constricting his heart, he wondered if he’d been keeping secrets for too long.

"Karina! Wait!"

Making a scene went against everything his father had ever taught him. Hiding was best done by being ordinary. But ordinary was letting his future walk out the door.

"Let’s talk."

Lovely in My Eyes

This was written in response to a prompt received from a self-proposed challenge. Prompt and challenge are at the end.

---

There was the basket as always. No matter how many times I did the washing, it never seemed to empty. I guess it’s a good thing. Means we’re all alive and kicking. But, still, I often felt it’d be nice if it’d disappear for a while or pass to someone else to do.

But if it’d passed for someone else to do, I’d’ve not seen her dancing that day.

I’d picked up the basket as always. It was my day for washing, so I was going about it, thoughts turning every which way as they often did. But there were always things on the stairs, enough that I always had to be careful, enough that I always had to pull my rambling thoughts in and focus. So I had been being careful. I’d pulled my thoughts from their wanderings and focused on the wood under my feet.

And because I was focusing, I heard her before I could see her. Lovely music made of pipes and lights, flutes and earth, such as I didn’t hear in this house. Who had left a radio on, I wondered; and what station was it, I wanted to know. I wanted to hear the music again.

But as I ventured further down, I could see colors, too, that didn’t belong in our boring laundry room. Green and gold and brown and black. Color and light and shadow twined and turned in ways I’d never seen them do, like they danced for the music on the radio that I must have.

There was no accounting for that, so I ducked down to look. Had someone brought something down and left it running on one of the machines? It was beautiful and I must know what it was, too.

Huzzah!

Agreed! @KaiLeakes At @DragonCon I was panelling & said that I want interracial couples that *aren't* white_POC too! #DiversityinSFF
— Diana M. Pho  (@writersyndrome) September 4, 2013

YES!  Someone will want to read my kdrama-esque steampunk novel featuring an Afro-Japanese couple trying to navigate courtship in the midst of class, race and family & cultural expectations (basically in that order), with the help of the best friends who are Jewish and dark-skinned Indian, respectively, all while trying to stay one step ahead in the world of steampunk fashion. 

I'M NOT WRITING IN VAIN!  Woo.  That's nice to know.  Wanna see?

12:13am, 7/14/13, hours after the verdict

This poem has been kicking around, waiting to be born for a while now.  Once upon a time I worked for a lovely organization that builds schools for underprivileged boys, primarily of color, in the NY metro area.  As someone working on the foundation (support) level, I read a lot of the research concerning boys in education in general, and boys of color in education in particular.  The stats for both groups are terrible.  I've since become more sensitive to issues concerning young men of color, and stress every helpful tip I ever learned to every mother with a son.

Then Trayvon Martin happened, and a host of other shootings of young brown men in the city and around the nation.  Tonight (technically last night, but I haven't gone to bed yet), Martin's shooter, George Zimmerman, was acquitted.  Half my twitter feed is alive with the news and reactions to the news.  I was doing okay--saddened, upset, annoyed--until Salli Richardson made this post on Instagram (sharing it via Twitter).  Then the poem that had been kicking around, waiting its turn to be born, giving me false positives when I saw an adorable brown baby boy, came pouring out of me.  And now I can't stop crying.  Which is a problem b/c I need to be up at 6 for church (I'm slow).

Anywho, poem.

12:13pm, 7/14/13, hours after the verdict, my beautiful baby boy

Dear Son of my womb

waiting to be born

waiting for Husband and Mother to be joined

I am scared for you

Beloved love of my life

they hate the very thought of you

You strike a fear in them that is revered on screen

and reviled on streets

They have told themselves how you walk

they have told themselves how you think

they have told themselves what you feel

and that that feel is fear

And though it shames me to say

I have sometimes believed their lies too

that a man that looks like you would could mean me harm

and a man that looks like they do could do me no wrong

though they are already plotting for your life yet unformed

Dear Son of my womb

what am I to do?

You precious gift of God

where could I hide you?

What kind of armor could I give you?

I am your mother, dear,

or I will be

isn’t it my job to keep you from all that hurt you?

Surely the advice that "you sometimes have to let them fall"

doesn’t include "let them get thrown up against a wall when he’s done nothing at all"?

Surely other mothers don’t worry

about rescuing their sons from precincts for crimes uncommitted and undefined

instead of principles' offices

Surely surely surely

they will see my baby boy’s beautiful mind

and not that he is a Black boy

older than six

taller than 5’

who fits a descrip

How long can it go?

I made a recent twitter comment about the kookie things my natural hair was doing to me in public the other day, to the amusement of my fellow Twitter-OTers. (Mission accomplished.)  That led to more silliness and a not-unusual question for ppl who only know each other online of "how long is your hair anyway?"

This shouldn't be a hard question to answer.  I mean, it's hair.  It's this long or that long. Except...well...my hair is kinky-curly.

What does that mean? It means my hair curls so tightly more than half their length is in deep hiding. I'm telling you there are people in witness protection who wish they were hidden as well as the true length of my hair.

To illustrate, here is a picture of my hair taken a few minutes ago.  I've been wearing it in this style nearly all week (except today when I had it up in a little afro-puff).  It's pulled back about 2-3" from my hairline by a very tight headband.

And here's a picture of my hair taken a few minutes later (please excuse my computer glove).  The only difference is that I've randomly chosen a curl, and pulled it out as far as it could comfortably go.  If you could see detail, you'd see that the hair still isn't straight.  If it had been chemically relaxed or otherwise straightened, it'd be even longer!

So how long is my hair?  Eh, it depends...

The Coming Storm

I wrote this last week on the way back to my office from a trying meeting which was part of a trying day.  How trying was it?  By the time I was within sight of my office, I was all but chanting the end-scene to myself.  Hope you enjoy.

“Are you saying that I have to walk on eggshells until you feel better?”

“No, of course not. You shouldn’t have to figure wonder at every word you say, whether or not they’ll piss me off or…” She stopped and, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, first shook her head then nodded. “Yes, that is what I’m saying,” she told her reflection.

“What? That isn’t fair.”

“You said that already. And why isn’t it fair? You hurt me. You offended me. I’m the injured party, and you’re the injurer. It’s not the other way around,” she said, still talking through the mirror. “I think I’m being more than fair by telling you that I need a few days to get over this, instead of snapping at you for no apparent reason, or tucking this down somewhere in my back pocket to pull out the next time we have an argument and I want to get back at you. Leave me alone or be real careful for the next couple of days…I don’t think that’s too much to ask,” she said, nodding to herself. “I’ll get over this, put it behind me and it’ll be over. I’ll never bring it up again,” she added with a shrug, self-aware enough to know that she was being truthful.

“I can’t believe you’re being like this. I apologized--”

“You did.”

“--and you refuse to accept it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. Not that you’ve ever appeared to be really apologetic, laughing and joking about something that obviously upset me, but I accepted your apology when you made it. Doesn’t mean I’m not still hurt. And accepting your apology doesn’t mean I have to be your new best friend.”

“…I still say that’s not fair.”

She shrugged. “Say what you want. Just thought you deserved fair warning so you didn’t try to blame my ‘attitude’ on grumpiness or some other…excuse. It’s you.”

“What, so I should go hide?”

Turning around, she said, “If you want. Hide. Take shelter. Send up an alarm. Yes, do. Because I am the storm on the ocean, and I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to gather my strength to break on your shores or dissipate over the water.” She strode out of the bathroom, stride long and tightly controlled, without another word.

-Fin-

 

NaPoWriMo's over, but I'm still writing poetry

I've actually written poetry since I was in 7th grade.  I can even tell you when I first, deliberately wrote a poem that was meaningful to me.  It was during Science class...  Anywho, as I've gotten older and busier, and as my writing tastes/priorities have changed, I've been a much less prolific poet than I was as a kid, but I never did quite stop.

It always makes me sad to hear others say that they have.  Unlike other writer-y things, for me poetry has never a hobby or a life-goal or any of those things that you can pick up, put down, or change into something else.  For me, poetry was, and is, more than what I did it was, and is, who I am.  I am a poet.  I don't know if I've always been a poet, but the moment I picked up that pen (it was Science class after all...pens!) and scribbled off that first angry/hurt/confused non-rhyming verse to and about my friends (see! all these years I've been consistent), a door opened in me that can't be shut again.  I may walk past the room in which all my poetry hides, but I can't brick it up.  I can pretend it's not there.  It will come bursting out of me to be doodled on corners of notes, written on the palms of my hands, or repeated like a mantra in my head until I can get it out of me.

This must be how a dancer feels, or a painter feels.  They can't not dance.  They can't not paint.  It is as much them as it is in them.  Assuredly, I've gone long stretches without writing a single verse, rhyming or otherwise, but that doesn't mean they weren't bubbling and bouncing around in my head.  I've been more likely to quit writing than I ever was to quit poetry.

What's your thing?  Everyone's got something they're just drawn to, right?

And since this discourse was not the point of my post, here are the two, very brief, poems that I intended to share when I sat down, under the cut.  If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you've already seen them:

And then there was fanfiction...

I'll admit it, this particular story **cough!fanfic!cough**  was heavily inspired by a well-known k-drama.  They are my minor obsession after all...  Anywho, I'm hoping that you can still enjoy the story, and figure out what's going on, even if you've never seen this particular series.  If you have seen it...well I hope I haven't completely offended you with the AU-ness of this story (in my head it's the beginning of a reworking of the series, but I am personally satisfied if this is as far as it gets).  One of my drama-aunties highly recommended this particular show to me, and I can't thank her enough.

Since this is nigh unto fanfiction, here is a lengthier version of my standard fanfic disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters, places or plots are mine; no profit is made from their use; and if you want to look at this philosophically, not even the words are mine, although I will claim the plot--for good or ill.  

Enjoy!

NaPoWriMo (30/30)

It's the last day of NaPoWriMo! (And possibly the last day for a while that I'll be posting, knowing me ;)  It's been interesting, and very cathartic--as you all now know--and at times very difficult.  I am reminded of what I knew all along, that my personal, non-fiction writing tends to happen when I'm unhappy or deeply inspired by something.  As a generally happy person, this means I have bouts of intense writing, followed by long dry spells.  Not so with NaPoWriMo!

The one thing that I haven't written all month, but totally love, is nonsense poetry.  I find it really hard to start, and so rarely do them but I love nonsense poetry all the same.  So here's my one and only nonsense poem, full of personal fangirlish name dropping, to close out the month after the jump. 

NaPoWriMo (29/30)

4/29/13 4:35pm

I feel like
I've been cut open by a mugger
but surely this is surgery

Then why am I still bleeding
Why does the wound still ache and seep
every time I come near it

Where is my closure?
Where I'd the Person to come and sew me back up?
I had some needle and thread
but I hardly know where to begin

If Someone will draw me a diagram
I would gladly follow it
Or is the diagram right there
and my stubborn eyes refuse to read it?

I don't know
but in weary from
holding myself together by my fingertips
and coming apart every time I dare to let go

Or maybe
maybe I'm still in surgery
just promise me that there will be an end

NaPoWriMo (28/30)

There were two poems for tonight, but the second didn't quite want to end so I'm still working on it.

4/28/13 doing laundry on a Sunday evening

why should i walk when I. Can.  RUN!
why is tallness = to slowness
i am low to the ground
and i never crawl
(and when i do crawl, i do it fast fast fast!)

there are springs in my knees!
and springs in my feet!
when i move i've got to move quick
there are springs in my feet!
there is excitement in my chest
bursting to get free

and if i jump jump run run
twist shout and scream
maybe that'll get it out of me
maybe this time you'll hear the song the body sings
and join me

NaPoWriMo (26-27/30)

Friday and Saturday were very long days for me, for very different reasons, so I ended up making picture posts for both days on Twitter and Facebook.  If you'd like to see my bad handwriting in all its atrocity, your best bet is to look for the twitter posts.  Anywho, here are the two poems under the jump.

NaPoWriMo (25/30)

Home stretch, ya'll.  As I was telling a friend of mine, doing this has shown me how much I write out of emotionality, particularly angsty, dark emotions, and so once those feelings have passed I find it hard to just...write.  Both my creative oppa and unnie have done marvelous things over these last 25 days with little more than the official NaPoWriMo prompt and/or their imaginations.  I, on the other hand, need a fire lit under me.  Or serious inspiration.  Anywho, on to today's poem. 

Remember how I mentioned I tend to camp out on subjects for a while?  Uh, so, yeah...here's a camp-er.  What's funny was that I meant to camp at an entirely different location, but this popped up before that other poem could fully form.

NaPoWriMo (24/30)

4/24/13 afternoon poem when I should be working

Little Brother
the truths I whispered to you
are truths only you know
Whether you begged them of me
out of interest
or to pull me off my throne
I am grateful
[to have been known]

NaPoWriMo (23/30)

Oh Lord
Search my heart

Is it still the gold you said it was
Or if is it now ashes in the flames?

Tell me, is it still true?
Because there are some days when I can't tell

NaPoWriMo (22/30)

4:20pm, 4/22/13

I've lived so much of my life as a nomad
That though I want to
I don't know how to come home to you

NaPoWriMo (21/30)

11:30pm-ish, 4/21/13, started writing on the way to church, then remembered I needed to review Sunday school lesson

I hope you don't mind
but I seem to be leap-frogging right through this friendship
skipping merrily through
all the boundaries I usually put up around me

Or maybe you don't notice
This is, after all
new for you, too

You don't know the hoops and blind hallways
the hedges, ditches and mounds
the guarded doors
the secret passwords
I usually keep between myself and the world

You don't know the simple tests for trustworthiness
the constant feeling out
between-the-line reading
and motive searching
(I'm such a girl)

And maybe
maybe
you never will

(Maybe I'm putting too much trust
in an all too fallible being
and when the honeymoon phase is over
this will have come to a terrible end)
as I dance along the edge of caution
and wanting to pull you in

I want to be friends
I want to be your friend
I want the sweetness of new-made friends to never end

NaPoWriMo (20/30)

1:30pm-ish epiphany while trying on clothes 4/20/13

Dear Revisionist History Friend,
I realize now it's not that you [always] revise the past
To fit the new you of the present
Calling false everything I know to be true
But that you spent so much time lying then
Trying to be everything you weren't
You can't keep track of it anymore

NaPoWriMo (19/30)

Found Poem: Music Notes

Sing 1st line
Long pause (they're waiting for me)
Sing again
(More pause?)
Sing verse normally

Do that again
Assymetry in the pause is nice
Long monotone blackbirds fly's

Jam

Come back to blackbird

NaPoWriMo (18/30)

10:27pm, 4/18/13, but i've been pondering this for a week or more

This is definitely the honeymoon phase of our friendship
(surely it won't last:
we'll find something to fuss and fight about
something we'll stub a toe on to make us shout;
there'll be some tick you don't like about me
and some habit I despise in you)
But though I know it's fleeting
I'm enjoy the process
of building up walls of synchronicity
against the days of aggravation and disinterest

NaPoWriMo (17/30)

11:47pm, 4/17/13

Holy One
Thank You for letting me be who I am
For letting me shine in the fullness of Your grace, in the glow of your glory
For not breaking me into a new shape, though You smooth my edges
For not forcing me to be like any of the others You call

You demand my will
You require the living sacrifice of my life
You made me to love You
to worship You
With all that I am
With all that I'll ever be
And in return You have given me the certainty
That though I am so far from perfect
I am a treasure loved and adored without measure
By the One who could have anything

Holy One
Thank You for stooping down
Close enough for me to call You
Father and
Friend

NaPoWriMo (15-16/30)

Day 15 is a picture post again, although I probably will share it at some point.  I had plenty of time to get it up but with everything happening in Boston, it didn't feel right.  Still doesn't.  Anywho, the FB friends and fellow twitterati can confirm that I did, indeed, photo-post Day 15's poem on the 15th.  See below the jump:

NaPoWriMo (14/30)

Disclaimer: I am not currently, nor have I ever been married, nor do I have current marriage prospects, nor have I consulted my married friends prior to the writing of this poem.  With that in mind: Please don't beat me up, marrieds!

6:30pm 4/14/13, watching dramas as is my wont

I love you
Husband
when you are goofy
When you are silly & bouncy & sugar-high
and such a complete nerd
I love you then

NaPoWriMo (13/30)

So if you've been reading along for all of the National Poetry Writing Month poems, you'll have noticed that I tend to camp out on a theme for a while before moving on to something else, and that sometimes my "moving on to something else" is more like a pit-stop to refuel than me really moving on.  I tend to ruminate.  Anywho, all that to say...

10:20pm 4/13/13, i thought i'd be writing about something else

all my biggest failures
seem to come
just before You expect the most from me

my prayers seem to consist only of
"See me
Forgiive me

Try my heart again
I'm sorry i've failed you
I'm sorry i'm like this"

and i know You see
the inner me that gives me so much consternation
the parts whose motives guide my mis-action
even when i want & know better

but what do You see
Lord
in wretched sinful me
when You listen to my pryaers
and peer into the places
i'd rather keep hid

NaPoWriMo (12/30)

6:15am, 4/12/13, tired of fighting

I know that you see me Lord
That you have searched me & known me
That you know my downsitting & mine uprising
But Lord
see me
even me:
My struggles & my deficiencies
my heart's ache & easy joy
the pendulum swing of my temperamental emotions

See these too, Lord:
The lazy obstinance of my will against Yours
the pseudo rationalizations for having it my way
my unwillingness to open my hand & let go
my declaration that everything is mine, when it's all Yours

See me, Lord
See all of me
and knowing all my faults
still let me beg mercy from He Who Is Holy

NaPoWriMo (11/30)

Excerpt from "8:10pm 4/11/13"

As many times
as I threw the knife
that nicked you
tell me
how many times did I turn around
to grind salt in the wound?

NaPoWriMo (10/30)

Uh, I'm pretty sure that this is unfinished and that I started channeling my creative oppa & unnie, who are much better at this than I am.

5:40pm 4/10/13 I don't know where this one came from

I'm not un-pretty
And apparently I've got that certain something
that makes the geek-boys swoon
(What do you mean most girls don't know
why Black ICE won't melt in June?)

NaPoWriMo (8-9/30)

I swear I actually did write a poem last night, but I was way too exhausted to post it.  Instead, I took a picture of the beginning with its familiar title-style and posted it to Facebook before passing out last night.  So if you don't trust me, you can ask my FB friends.  As soon as you find them ;)

Anywho, here are the picture of Days 8 (too raw, possibly too personal) and all of Day 9 beneath the jump.  Enjoy.

NaPoWriMo (7/30)

8:22am 4/7/13, writing on a Sunday morning for Jomo

Let's make a memory of us
one that's strong & wild & free
and just
us

Hard days are coming we know
and bad times won't wait

So let's make something that's just us
something so pervasive so unique so down in the bone
a memory of love to drown in & live on
if ever we want to leave

Lets make a memory of us
everyday
please

NaPoWriMo (6/30)

This almost didn't happen.  I'm beat.  But, as the title says, this particular subject is often on my mind so...

11:05pm, 4/6/13, On my mind off & on but mostly on this week

I thought it would be like this

that you would be the first one to throw me away

The others,

ah the others,

they’ll hem and haw and find nice things to say

for a while

Then they’ll toss me out too

But you have no guile

you don’t know the best time to lie

You already accuse me of the sins you don’t like

until you’re doing them yourself

so what’s to stop you from shooting me down

for the truths you believe in

Are you already planning what you’re going to do?

Will it break you?

NaPoWriMo (5/30)

Second verse, same as the first, there were many more poems in my head (several of which actually made it to paper!) than can be shared.  Here's today's sharer.

9:41am, 4/5/13 Our Conflicting Schedules

I miss the days
when I would curl up in your lap
You thought it strange
but let me do it anyway
because you always understood
(the way the abandoned would)
how important physical contact was to me

NaPoWriMo (4/30)

Another day filled with more poems in my head than on paper about more things than I could post even if I had written them down.  Hopefully this isn't as weird as I think it is.

11:14pm, 4/4/13 my handwritten love note is on the computer but it's just for you

When it happened to me

I didn’t want anyone to know

this pain so personal and private

it seemed wrong to allow

anyone to intrude

And when it got out

I was mad

My privacy had been violated

my wishes disregarded

my grief blown wide for all the world to see

when what I’d wanted

was to lick my wounds in a corner

in hopes of reconstituting my soul

But the love notes

the I-feel-for-yous

the this-happened-to-me-toos

did more for me than any corner could

So I feel for you

because something like this happened to me too

and though I can’t enter fully into your pain

know I love you

NaPoWriMo (3/30)

Thanks to my, ahem, adventurous morning at work I have quite a few more poems in me than just the one below, but they all keep getting written in my head faster than I can get them on paper.  We'll see which, if any, stick.  Maybe I'll post them as bonuses?  Je ne sais pas.

11:40am, 4/3/13, trembling w/anger
I could list your offenses on a piece of legal
front & back again
(and oh the irony there)

Or I could put on the head of a pin
on a scrap of sticky-paper
and paste it on your forehead:
Disrespect

In the little ways you walk all over me
you show how little you respect
my humanity

NaPoWriMo (1-2/30)

Just when you thought the adventure would never end (stop asking "What adventure?"), it's National Poetry Writing Month!  A friend of mine who's a spoken word poet has done it in years past, but it's never on my radar in time for me to participate myself.  Thanks to @GalleyCat on Twitter, I got the heads up today instead of on day 15 :D

I hope to make all 30 poems in all 30 days, though I can't promise that I'll post them every day.  I will undoubtedly post all of my poems at some point, whether I reach 30 or not. Anywho, here're the first two poems under the jump, neither of which I planned on writing when I was pondering my poems for the day.

Lord of the Table

I wrote this for this week's writing challenge on io9's Open Channel Concept Art Writing Prompt: A Baroque Dinner Party Aboard an Underwater Shipwreck.  I'm not sure if it's a good or bad sign that it wouldn't post to the site...  Anywho, enjoy!

***

"I want to leave, Robert." 

He looked up at her, at first surprised and then appalled.  "Cecilia!  Your elbows!"

She rolled her eyes.  "Really?  After four centuries it's my elbow--because it is only the one, Robert--on the table to provokes a reaction?"

"You know it's on the table, and yet it remains?"

"Robert!"

"Yes, my love."  He straightened, properly chastised by Cecilia's tone, and picked up his tea cup as it was the closest shield to hand. 

"I want off this ship."

"But Fredericks is still pouring.  Dessert isn't far behind.  We've made it this far, it seems a waste to miss the dessert."

"Fredericks," Cecilia all but snarled the butler's name, her molars grinding on the harder sounds, "has been pouring for over four hundred years.  If we weren't dead, we'd have wasted away waiting for dessert!"

"My dear!  Do maintain a pleasant tone.  Your sister is not well--"

"She's drunk."

"--and it would be rude to wake her."

"She's dead!  And drunk!  She's been drunk for four centuries."

"Clearly she needs the rest."

Disgusted, she threw her hands up.  They were promptly entangled with a drifting bit of sea kelp,  Cecilia swore as she frantically brushed the offending greenery from her person.

"My dear!"

"Oh don't you 'my dear' me, Robert!"

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" he asked, his own ire finally rising.

"End the dinner!  Get up from table so that we may all do so and finally, finally, reach our eternal rest.  At this point I don't care whether it's in Heaven or Hell....it can't be worse than an interminable dinner party that never proceeds forward, and never changes!"

Robert stared at his wife, aghast.  "I can't believe you find your friends and your sister so intolerably boring.  And that you would say so where all could hear."

"Well, as you point out, Maria is fast asleep.  She hears nothing.  Likewise, Althea is paying us no mind.  To my best recollection she hasn't spoken to us in well over two hundred years, if not two hundred and fifty.  The other members of our party, if they are locked into the same milieu are at the other end of the hall, and there they shall stay until some sort of resolution to this meal is reached--if ever it is.  So, yes, I do find our friends and my sister intolerably boring.  And yes, I say where all can hear, not that anyone is listening!"

"I'm listening."

One of Cecilia's painted eyebrows rose.  "Are you, dear?"

"Are you saying that I, too, am intolerably boring?"

She looked away, unwilling to speak.

"You are saying it, aren't you.  I am the only person with whom you've been able to have meaningful conversation since Althea began monopolizing Fredericks and you find it beneath you."

"That's not what I'm saying," she told a passing school of fish.  They ignored her, uninterested in the dinner party they and their predecessors had been passing for generations.

"Isn't it?"

"I haven't been talking about you at all.  For you are not intolerably boring.  I couldn't have borne being married to you if you were."

"Then what are you saying, Cecilia.  Mariah, Althea and Fredericks do not entertain you.  And although I entertain you, or at least I am not as intolerable as those three, still you find some fault in my company.  I demand that you tell me what it is.  This is hardly the first time you've asked me to end the dinner."

Cecilia shook her head.  That spooked the fish.  "No it isn't the first time."

"So tell me my deficiency.  I am here.  I am awake.  I am speaking to you."  Robert set down his tea cup.  "I am not boring."

"No, but you are a coward."  She turned to face him.  "Unwilling to face his mortality by simply getting up from table."  Cecilia stood.

"Where are you going?" Robert demanded. 

"To sit with Althea while I can.  Until the cycle starts again, of course."  She left.

Robert picked up his tea cup.

-Fin-