Rate the Story Game, número tres

10. Here is proof that writing does not necessarily have to be complicated or stuffed with sweeping prose to be beautiful.

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30 June: I have failed to record life in the Richardson household for the past few days as I have been conflicted over whether this is such a thing that should be written about. But how can I not? This is meant to be a space to stash my secret feelings, a necessity to maintain myself during the very emotional and nerve-wracking time periods of my last area of employment, as well as being unemployed. Now I do not fear hysteria but rather that my chest might burst if I do not confide within these emotionless pages.

I can no longer be known for my propriety. I had always thought those stories of servants intimately connected to the gentlefolk that hired them were mainly perpetuated by gossipers in need of a good scandal to dramatize their lives – but now I see that it can happen. It has happened. And I do not know how I should feel about what has been done.

Perhaps I should simply narrate what occurred. Mister Richardson had a visitor over, one Ms. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, who he apparently has had a long and distinguished past with. He did not require my assistance but I stayed outside the door all the same - why I should do such a thing rather than enjoy a break, I do not know, only that I did not particularly wish to be separated from my kindly patron – and therefore caught snippets of an argument that broke out between them. I could not follow, precisely, what the argument was about (Mister Richardson, a criminal? No, there had to be a mistake), only that Ms. Knapp-Shappey had said something that offended Mister Richardson to the point where he ordered her to leave.

I hid behind a tapestry when she left, but I doubt that I needed to do so, as she was so distracted that she probably would not have noticed my presence anyways. I waited until I heard Remy lead her out of the house, before I approached my master, standing at the parlor window with a silk fan in hand. Anyone unacquainted with the man and the situation might have described his state as ‘nonchalant’ or ‘careless’ but as he turned to respond to my initial query, I could tell that such words were wholly inappropriate. Desolation entered my soul at the depth of sorrow resting in his expression. I continued in my questions, for I did not think he heard me the first time, despite the stillness of the house.

It is here that Mister Richardson engaged me in The Action. Previously, I had imagined many different scenarios in which I would show my utmost gratitude towards his hospitality, some more affectionate than others, but never had any of my dreams encapsulated such intimacy…

I shall throw caution to the wind, for my heart simply cannot bear to hold all this within me. Mister Richardson kissed me upon the mouth, not the chaste kisses that close friends share, but something that holds within it a promise of the closest communion. At first, I did not know what to say or do – I merely allowed it to happen, feeling the way his lips moved against mine, and wondering about all these feelings that suddenly arose – but as he pulled away, the fear within his face frightened me terribly. “Do you not like this?” Mister Richardson gasped, attempting to piece it together as something that did not matter. But I realized then what it was that he was asking of me, and why he should look so afraid at my lack of reciprocation.

“I…I merely was unsure of what you were asking, Mister Richardson,” I said, eyes cast down, remembering that one of my employers had mentioned that it was impolite to look them in the face. “I was waiting to be told what it was that you liked.”

Mister Richardson pulled me close, and whispered his desires in my ear, of which I blush to merely think of, and have not yet the strength of will to quantify them with my pen. We retreated to his room, locking the door behind us – and within those four walls, I came to realize that love and affection is all that matters.

This reminds me of the time that I roomed with someone who told me that each night, he went to the owner of the house, and laid with him. There had been scandals in the newspaper, and the only reason he had told me was that if he had kept it to himself any longer, the anxiety would have killed him. At the time, I did not understand, and merely told him that I hoped it would not be so, and went to sleep.

Now, I understand. I understand why he would bring such stress upon himself with what I had previously considered as rebellion against the law, and why he felt the need to tell me. It is a lonely thing to find such closeness and not be able to breathe a word of it to anyone; yet all I want to do is cry out all from the towers, in a fit of utter shamelessness.

Perhaps I should feel guilt from the illegality of our actions, but instead I merely feel satiation and complacency.

- incomplete Cabin Pressure AU. Part of a fill for this prompt.

9.5 I think this is extremely well written, though I'm not familiar with Cabin Pressure. I pretty much love how this is written.

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Ryan met Gabe at the album release party for A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out. Pete had introduced them to each other before heading off somewhere, probably to get a drink.

Pete and Ryan had slept together several times by now, and Pete would give him money just to “help him out.” At first, Ryan had felt weird about it, but soon it was a ritual. Call, sex, money; all in that order. Pete would make up excuses to come to Vegas: contracts, checking up, a redo of the first audition. And then there was the whole recording the album bit.

Pete would sit in on their sessions and then Ryan would end up a sweaty mess in the back of Pete’s SUV, a new wad of money pressed into his hands. No one knew of their relationship, which Ryan was glad. He didn’t think other people would understand, even though he didn’t fully understand it himself.

Was Pete paying him for the sex? Ryan was starting to wonder about other people and whether they would pay for sex.

And then there was Gabe.

“So Pete tells me you give the best blow jobs.”

Ryan looked up at Gabe before surveying the room to see if Pete or anyone else was nearby.

“Yeah?” he questioned, eyes back on Gabe. He nodded his head and leaned down, his mouth against Ryan’s ear.

“I have cash,” he said, tongue flicking out of his mouth to taste Ryan’s earlobe. He shivered.

Ryan had a new decision to make. It didn’t take much persuasion by either party.

- unposted, tentatively titled Secret Lives & Unique Details

10. This is a winner -- I really want to read it when it's posted. I really like the order of events -- like, present situation, an explanation, & back to present (if that makes sense, but I'm sure you get what I mean.) I'm really interested.
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“I just have a headache.” Brendon swallowed and I watched his Adam’s apple wobble. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and gave me a weak laugh. “It’s really bad.”

“So bad you’re in tears?” The words came a lot harder than I meant, but he got the point. He nodded, tried to laugh again. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Oh….” He rolled his eyes, his face covered in thought as tears begin to brew inside him again. We sat completely silent for a while, so long I almost asked him again before he said it: “Like the worst pain I’ve ever felt…like I’ve already forgotten what it’s like to not hurt, like it’ll never stop hurting… like I’m being pulled apart… like there’s no worse pain in the world — ” I watched his face contort from might-be-about-to-cry to inhuman-dying-hysterics in seconds. Brendon covered his eyes first, but when the sobs continued, he buried his face in his palms.

I have no idea what the fuck to do.

-A Broken Bone, Fever-era Ryden

9.5. I really like this. I'm actually gonna go read the whole thing once I'm done here.

---

Pete glanced at Ryan as he sat down on the bed, leaning back on his elbows.

“You have a girlfriend, Ryan?”

He shook his head no.

“I don’t have the time,” he said.

“So you are into girls?” Pete asked, completely straightforward. Ryan could feel his face getting warm. “Sorry. Sometimes I say things without really thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan answered quietly. He let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t actually completely sure about his sexuality. He had thought he liked girls, he definitely liked looking at naked pictures of them when the mood struck. But then he met Brendon, annoyingly silly yet completely adorable. He didn’t want to admit to the crush.

And now, now Ryan was in a hotel room with an older, good looking, powerful guy. If that didn’t confirm that he quite possibly had a thing for guys, he didn’t know what would.

Pete sat up on the bed and patted the space on the mattress beside him and Ryan sat down there, his heart racing ever so slightly.

He glanced at Pete and smiled nervously. He grinned back and Ryan couldn’t help but stare at his teeth; the way they sat behind those perfect lips made his head buzz.

He wasn’t as shocked as he thought he would be when he saw that mouth moving towards his. Ryan’s eyes moved up to meet Pete’s and he could see desire. Pure unadulterated desire. It was completely overwhelming.

- unposted

8 - I would definitely post this, it sounds good!

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I knock on his door. “Toby, I’ve got your phone.”

No answer.

I bang on his door louder, annoyed. “Toby!”

The door swings open. “What?” asks Toby.

I wave his mobile in front of him tantalisingly. “This is yours,” I tell him. “Now where’s mine?” I’m still taller than him, but only just. Toby hit his growth spurt early.

Toby makes a grab for his phone, and I toss it on the bed, following him into his bedroom. “I think you must have taken mine to school today,” I say, finding his school bag and opening it.

My back is turned to Toby, but suddenly hands come over my shoulders and try to yank the bag out of my grip. Automatically, I hold on tighter.

“Val, let go, I’ll look for it,” Toby pleads.

“Why, what have you got hidden in here?” I ask him teasingly. “Why aren’t I allowed to look?”

“Val, give it here-“

“Uh-uh, no, I’m the older responsible sister, it’s my duty to see what my little brother’s been getting up to-“

Toby gives a particularly forceful pull, and the schoolbag turns upside down, scattering its contents all over the floor. I stumble against the desk, and Toby pulls the bag out of his hands, but it’s too late. Everything is on the floor.

I start to laugh, not registering Toby’s mortified expression and red cheeks. “What happened there?” But Toby is on the floor, quickly trying to gather up his books, and suddenly I see what he is trying to hide.

His textbooks are covered with thick black lettering, the words covering up all his work. ‘Homo,’ the words say. ‘Homo.’ ‘Fag.’

I stare at them, and slowly pick up his maths book. Shredded paper falls out.

Toby is sitting there, frozen, one hand still stretched out for the bag as he stares at me, like a fox caught in the headlights of a car.

Being Left To The Flood
http://www.mibba.com/Stories/Read/470845/Being-Left-to-the-Flood/1/

9-I really liked it, mostly because I don't really see many stories involving the family of someone being picked on or bullied. It's always the friends or something along those lines and i'm always asking myself 'what about their family?'

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Olivia pulled her hair into a tight bun, wincing as pain coursed through her scalp. She tried to ignore the ever growing chatter from downstairs as she slipped a pair of heels onto her feet. One last look in the mirror and she was ready to head downstairs. But the moment her feet hit the bottom step she wished she was upstairs again.

The room was brightly lit, glass shimmering all around. The theme of the party was ‘Through the Looking Glass.’ something her mother had stolen from Alice in Wonderland. But all around, different colored wine glasses stood on platters, all full of some kind of drink. Olivia watched as the waiters skimmed around the room, carting around the trays of drinks. The slipped between the patrons expertly, not once disturbing anyone.

“Olivia!” The girl glanced up, spotting her mother right away in the crowd.

For one; she was tall, very tall. And two, she was the only one wearing a crown. Liv didn’t know why her mother was wearing a crown, nor did she want to know why she was wearing a crown. That was just something she didn’t want to deal with.

“Yes mother?” The girl asked quietly, stepping aside from the large flow of people that were making their way towards the food tables.

“Oh you look so beautiful.” Her mother gushed.

Heat spotted Olivia’s cheeks as she wasn’t used to getting compliments from anyone. And she wasn’t so sure that she looked ‘beautiful’. She wore a purple strapless dress with black lacing over it in flowering patterns, her hair up tightly with a few loose strands down the sides, and a pair of black heels that made her two inches higher then she normally was. She felt very out of her comfort zone and she was sure it showed on her face.

“Thank you.” Olivia said quietly.

“I want you to go over near your father, he’s talking to some important clients and they have a son your age. Wouldn’t it be grand if you two hit it off? Then your father would get them as clients for sure. So do your best.”

Her mother then shoved her into the crowd, making her nearly trip, and motioned frantically for her to make her way to her father. Olivia sighed and had no other choice but to follow her mother’s instructions. If she wanted her to ‘hit it off’ with the clients son, well she would do it.

-unposted-

8. There's a lot of well-written description, but I feel like it's telling rather than showing.

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It was another late night at Pete’s discussing the same things Brendon always wanted to discuss, what happened to Ryan and happiness and the world and when things were going to get better. Pete had been fighting with Ashlee about Bronx on the phone for the better part of the afternoon, half drunk on a bottle of tequila, and he was done. He was fucking done.

“Sometimes I just wonder what happened to us,” Brendon mumbled, staring down the neck of his beer bottle, shoulders tensed as if he was expecting the vicious bit back at any minute.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Pete was like a bird when he attacked, back lifted, head down, circling in. “Look, we just grew up. Ryan didn’t want to be a scene queer anymore so he became some hipster demisexual thing and then people wanted to do other shit and I had a fucking baby. You would be engaged if she hadn’t caught you plowing her fucking brother on top of the washing machine. Just grow up like the rest of us and stop wishing you were in high school. It’s done, Brendon, okay? Peter Pan grows up just like the rest of us.”

Then Pete was gone and Brendon was alone with a half empty beer and his half empty thoughts.

---uneverything, but new (completely unpolished)

10. Wow, great work. It imeadiately made me sullen while reading. You convery emotions excellently and your description is sublime- enough but not overdoing it. You're very talented. And the analogy with Peter Pan is really great with the story. I loved it.

- - -

The black haired boy's lips suddenly stretch into a grin, eyes flashing with happiness. I find that his happiness is infectious and am already beaming a smile back at him. "Thanks, Skye. That means a lot. Mom's not always there for me, and Dad's not with us... Until you came along, I really was alone. I couldn't ask for a better friend."

"Well she's missing out then too," I tell him, squeezing his knee in a comforting manner. I move my head so we're locked in eye contact once more. "I've known you for nearly a month, Tai, and you've been a great friend to me. Better than any friends I ever had before. You're like my brother."

Another smile grows on his face and the wind whipps delicately at his pink cheeks. My hair gets blown back behind me as I stand up, ready to leave. "Remember," I tell him, "As long as I'm around, you're part of my family."

I walk away then, only catching his last words. "Thank you, Skye."

I make my way through the streets and finally see Pierre standing in the middle of the street. He had been waiting for me, letting the other civillians dodge and weave around him. As I approach, he takes his hands out of his trouser pockets and smirks. Curiously, I raise an eyebrow and walk up to him. He then wraps hims arms around my middle in a tight hug, pressing his cold cheek against my neck. I gasp in surprise. When he pulls away from me I am sure my face is crimson red. "What'd you guys talk about?"

"Not too much," I reply. Pierre shifts so his arms is wrapped firmly around my waist. He holds my body close to his as we continue our way home. "But I think I just made his days in Everstile a lot more bearable." Pierre leans over and places his lips the top my head. I whimper softly and I pray that he hadn't noticed it. I can't help but feel warm as I think about how he has made my whole life here a whole lot better.

And how I may or may not be in love with him.

--excerpt from chapter 14 in; Birdie

Eight.

- -

His eyes pulsate to the beat that seeps from within the guitar. The little smile playing on his lips shows that he’s so emerged in the music that he’s oblivious to the sunset guiding the end of our trip. His fingers run down the fret board with ease, each one dancing along the string and allowing the harmonics to ring out within the quiet air. Like butterflies, each note flutters through the air with a delicate grace that reminded me of the colouring of his eyes. The vibrations could be felt trailing tiny footsteps along my spine that caused a warm sensation to shoot through my nerves from tip to tip.

As the music takes over, the corners of his lips keep curling into a tiny smile as my ears are filled with the most beautiful music I could hear. Each note flies through the air like fireworks on a dark night, giving bursts of colours that fill my soul with hope. The flush of colours flicks through their spectrum, becoming more and more vibrant and I can barely drag my eyes away as they gently float up towards the sleeping sky.

- Notes.

9. I found the description to be beautiful. The only thing I found a bit distracting were the the last two lines, when you repeated the word "colours" within a few words of one another - I felt like it threw the flow a bit, especially in so short an excerpt.

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Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Kirk hates the heavy footed pirates with the steel-toed boots the most. They always march onto the bridge with all the arrogance in the world, thinking that their dominance is portrayed only through the amount of noise they can make with their thick rubber soles against the tile floor, but really all it signifies is their insecurity and inexperience.

As if being able to beam aboard was an accomplishment. All Federation starships are only able to engage shields when directly under attack, after the Great Romulan War of 2161 – or, as all the cadets like to call it, the Great Misunderstanding. The USS Tranquility was experiencing odd pressure readings while passing through the newly declared Neutral Zone – a declaration which had not yet graced the subspace radio waves – and was perceived to be a threat by Romulan war birds. They proceeded to attack, breaking down the shields and destroying the starship.

The USS Tranquility had been on a peaceful mission. It had neither phasers nor photon torpedoes, and was host to over 100 families on the day of its demise.

So, no more frivolous usage of the shields. This upset a lot of starship captains, but Kirk doesn’t mind it so much, except when pirates who think they’re special take advantage of the rule to try and steal the ship. Federation technology goes for a lot in the black market, for unknown reasons considering it’s usually the last to be updated in the entire universe, so anytime they rear their branded head, NCC-1701, all the cloaked pirates hop into their transporter rooms like their lives depend on it.

- beginning of a steampunk!star trek fic

8. You start off well, but don't maintain the same level of prose all the way through.

--

Far away from me as I pondered my future text, the forgotten son rowed. He felt his muscles knot with raw, unbridled power. Hated seized him up, and flooded him with warmth. He heaved, and every sinew in his body obliged in perfect synchronisation. It was a kind of magic, the way he could manipulate physics. His strength was unholy. He lunged again, his shoulder blades separating, sliding back like a hundred heavy weights on pulleys, as though he were just an extension of the machine he moved, beautiful, mechanical, and faultless. He moved with furious speed, hauling oars like sorcery. With each stroke, his scar rippled. It stretched down his bulging back in waves. The length of a cracked whip or a rope of seaweed, it was a reminder of everything he fought for.

There was no fear or nervousness in him. His hatred was the calm that steers a perfect storm from its unblinking eye. It was a well-oiled kind of anger.

The rower’s name was Eiron, and he was a Seafarer, part of the ocean’s war with the land it beat down constantly, from fiefdom cliffs to smooth, packed beaches. In this war, Eiron ranked highly. He had his status to thank for the various kraken and sea serpents that coiled around his arms and thighs, and spread their tentacles across his broad chest. In Seafarer tradition, only the strongest, the oarsmen, could wear such signs. More land-bound fishermen, net menders and carvers of ivory wore tattoos of seals and crustaceans. The Seafarers who ranked lowest were the ones who took to the land, running along the lines of cliff tops, keeping watch and fanning fires. Those sentries wore wolves and mammoths on their shoulders, and their tattoos were rendered in fireplace ash. Because they did not live off the sea, they did not deserve the midnight black and bruised purple that came from the ink of squids and crushed shells respectively.

Soon, Eiron would be as bad as those land dwellers, for he was forsaking his tribe. He would be as bad as the mammoth riders, with their protruding foreheads and prominent brows, who were robust but ungraceful. He would be as bad as the ones who wore furs instead of eel leathers, the magical properties of which were known to the Seafarers alone. Eiron knew he would be outcast when his deeds were discovered. He would be forced to hang around campfires burning sticks instead of the driftwood that gave off the sacred blue flames.

He knew he would be a nomad, with no home and only the purpose the druids gave him, but still, Eiron rowed.

9. It's brilliantly written, but I'm confused as to the point of view that it's told in. The first sentence is written in first but it feels as though the perspective changes to third person afterwards. Regardless, your writing is brilliant.

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There is a constant, a constant hue—red; red everywhere, pooling on the floor, spattered across the walls, soaking the side and back of his shirt and slipping across his skin and the skin of the human crutch dragging him out of what had been the danger zone. Red; red everywhere—he almost thinks that it’s paint and wishes it was but it’s too warm and sticky and certainly wouldn’t openly pour from the aching agony in his side. His ears still ring with the boom of the fire and he can’t hear the soothing hum of words from his companion’s voice. All he can see, all he can hear, all he can feel is red. The shake doesn’t bring him back from the sea of red, just as being propped against the stall door and the floor hadn’t registered in his scarlet world. His companion’s world is full and in Technicolor, taking in the array of hues in addition to the red, red everywhere. His movements are erratic as he collects the scratchy brown paper towels and toilet paper to press against the wounds. The pressure, however light, draws a cry from his throat and illustrates the rest of the world to his eyes.

“Sh, sh, shhh, Ten, sorry, sorry,” in a hiss of a voice, Graham forces away a contorted expression and presses his palm to Tenor’s lips, muffling whatever whine of pain that may escape and resonate in the bathroom and ricochet against the tile floor and walls. Beyond those walls, there is silence. “Sorry,” he repeats, keeping the pressure steady against the flow of red. “I-I should’ve—” a scream interrupts him. “—should’ve just gotten you out of there, Tenor… should’ve done more, should’ve run faster…”

- from the third chapter of The Forever Year

9. Definitely has me curious and wondering whats going on, and why this Tenor is bleeding so profusely. It leaves one with a lot of questions that would be answered if they read the story. I like it a lot. The writing is brilliant and isn't too detailed, but well enough to give a picture in my mind.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The room became silent as cereal and milk filled another glass bowl. Bruce grabbed his bowl before going over to the other side of the island in the middle of the kitchen. Sitting across from the boy he began to eat.

Silence between these two was normal. They were both men of few words and preferred to keep it that way. Only speaking when spoken to or when it was necessary. Both of whom were brooding souls out to save the world one evil doer at a time.

The clatter of a spoon hitting the bottom of a bowl was the first sound to be made by either. Finished with his meal the boy grabbed his bowl before he stood up and turned around to put it in the sink.

With his back turned to his mentor and father he said, "Why didn't you avenge me?"

Those five words struck something within Bruce. He felt a sharp pang in his chest. Before he could even answer the boy before him turned around and it was no longer the child he had failed. It was the Joker with that manic grin on his face.

When he looked around they were no longer in the Wayne mansion, but on top of a building in Gotham City. Looking down he found himself in a white t-shirt and sleeping pants. He was Bruce Wayne facing a psychopath standing on top a six story building. He had nothing to protect himself with except for his fists

"You didn't kill him! Why didn't you kill him? He murdered me! I thought you fucking cared!" This time the voice was that of the boy who now stood a few feet away from the Joker.

"I--I'm sorry Jason," he stuttered out.

"Aw! Looks like the bat's gonna cry," the Joker mused before cackling like a hyena. "Why didn't you avenge the poor boy? Hm?"

"Because I don't fight to kill," he said with fists clenched at his sides. The two of them were persecuting him for something he had hated himself for ever since it had happened. He wasn't a ruthless killer. No matter what happened to him or anyone else Bruce Wayne was not a killer.

- first chapter of Never Forget

9. It has a really great flow, a perfect balance of description and dialogue. I thought it was a little bit hard to follow, though, and had to read it twice - but that might also be due to the fact that I'm not actually in the Batman fandom.

---

I spent the whole night trying to hack into the database to erase my name from the attendance list. Each attempt was met with a screen saying: ‘NO WAY, JIM.’

“You can barely program your own fucking PADD!” I scream after too many attempts, the desperation settling in. I don’t care that it’s 0215, or that Bones has an important exam in the morning.

“What the hell are you hollerin’ about – oh.” Bleary eyed, Bones catches a look at my screen, and the fucking haughtiness is back; all I want to do is hit it out of him, punch after punch until his face is covered in dark purple bruises and blood is dripping from his nose, his lips, his mouth. I don’t hate him, but in this moment, I do. “I talked to Uhura, and she was more than happy to help me reprogram the database so your little technofingers can’t get at it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed. I suggest you do the same.”

Every keystroke, every file, I get the same message. NO WAY, JIM. It makes me just a little bit sicker each time it flashes.

*

Sometimes, I think that I should tell Bones. It’s only a fleeting idea, before my defense mechanisms kick in, erasing any reason I might’ve had as to why it’s any of his business, except for the obvious: he’s my friend. That just doesn’t feel like justification enough.

But maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be sitting in a full auditorium, just one more face against a backdrop of red cadet uniforms, glassy eyed and a little too subservient. I could have weaseled out of this with a doctor’s note, an excuse, anything.

Or I could have lost a roommate, and the one true friend I have. It’s ridiculous – how could Bones ever be so cruel? – but it is, his voice in the back of my head, hissing, “No one will like you if they knew, you little slut.”

I shudder involuntarily. No one’s watching but I tell the air, “Crazy party last night,” which makes a girl in the vicinity glare and shush me.

Doesn’t matter. My alibi is out there so no one gets the right idea. A silence falls immediately after, the hush of death, thicker even than the nothingness of space.

- incomplete. star trek 2009 academy fic.

7. I think that this story is good, but could be improved. I think the overall idea is good and that it is apparent, but I feel as if it wasn't as detailed as it could be and you could probably elaborate a little more within some of the content. Other than that, your flow, consistency, and plot were great.

- - - -

He stood atop a mountain peak, the snowcapped point just a shadowy form against a pale backdrop of the varying golds of a dying sun. The wind blew in a furious motion, one fluid yet abrupt sweep of frozen air that threatened to push him from his place on top of the world. He looked out onto the land that rolled out in the North and he saw the specks that were undoubtedly small houses and then he saw larger balls of light which could only have been the large, bustling cities.

The world below seemed so sepulchral and inconsequential that he grew to favor the frozen place where Atlas had stood, and where he stood now. His mind was devoid of thought save for those of the humans that resided in the specks and the lights. He thought greatly of those people and the way their day had been so far, and how they're whole lives had been, day after day and year after year. He thought of how they might wake up in the morning, bright sunlight in their face. He thought of how they would roam the streets in the afternoon or eat at a restaurant in the evening. He envisioned the way they might fall in love with another and gaze at the stars that were rapidly approaching, of their vows of commitment on their wedding day, and then of the way they would stand back and smile as they saw their own children grow as quickly as weeds and turn into adults just as themselves and have the process start over once more.

He smiled as these thoughts raced through his skull for none of these visions of the humans living on the flat plains and hills that rolled away from his mountain contained him in neither thought, essence, or body. No one in those hills knew his face or had ever spoken his name, save for his parents who resided in a small speck in the vast plains. He took pride in knowing that even here on this moment, gone from the world he knew, nothing had changed and therefore nothing would ever change. The cycle of love and human growth would continue on uninterrupted and no one would feel his absence in the slightest. His parents would feel the grief for a short time, he knew that as well as he knew himself, but his brothers would grow in size and in maturity and would carry on the cycle by having sons of their own. The family would grow as large as ever until he was nothing but an ancestor's name on a family tree, all but his name forgotten to this world.

Oh, he stood atop a mountain peak for hours, and days, and weeks, and all he wanted to do was die.

- Peak

Eight

--

As Fuchsia held him, Snape only thought of Lily. It was her breath, he imagined, that was hot against his neck, her fingers that toyed coyly with the straps on his chest, slowly winding themselves through the buckles so that the leather strips snaked back and released his suffocated flesh; his pale ribs and pasty, erect nipples. It was Lily’s lips that pressed against his own, pouty and needy where he was resistant. Her hair was like a ravenous flame engulfing him, and there were no dark brown, voluminous locks tangled in his greasy black ones.

He felt like he was being smothered. There might have been wedding white shades all around him, but the girl who clung to him, as though he was another drenched body that the sea might swallow and covet forever, was anything but innocent. Her fingers quickly found the zipper at his crotch, and her body arched and heaved against his as she pulled it down, just like she was pulling down the rest of him. Snape was helpless, a slave to sensation, as her hands caressed him where he had only ever touched himself to the memory of Lily’s face.

This couldn’t be happening, and yet, it was. It couldn’t be that he was losing his virginity to someone other than the love of his life, but at the same time, losing it and losing himself felt so good. Fuchsia’s hands cupped him as he stiffened, becoming like the sharp collar that had been high and starched around his throat. Her fingertips moved slowly, up and down the length of him, playing; teasing, even tormenting, and daring him to fight back or to reciprocate.

Severus gasped, feeling beads of moisture slipping where she handled him. Then, in a motion that was all too sudden, a robbery, she was on him. Her hips rolled expertly and his eyes rolled back, his body spasming. He shivered, crying out like it hurt, but the only thing that was wounded was his pride. The only thing that had died was the simpler part of him, the part that wanted to wait, the part that had always been unwanted and uninitiated.

Fuchsia flopped off him, still stroking his hips and his pinched sides, straying close to the places she had already explored in depth. She was naked where she lay, her body an exhibition like something spread flat on a table to be examined, or an offering like a feast for sorry eyes. And, then, afterwards, Snape lay stung by her side, thinking of his heart and how he had betrayed her.

--

From Snivellus (link below).

8.7

*

Peter sat with a group of his friends, watching a few of the girls on the dance floor. There was one girl that had caught his eye with her blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She made him actually want to live, something he hadn't wanted since the day he had turned eighteen.

Always lively, Wendy danced with one of her closest friends. They had all decided to go out to cheer up Hannah, who had just gone through a rough breakup and needed a pick-me-up. Trying not to be insensitive to Hannah, Wendy still couldn't help but notice the boy sitting in the corner table with no less than five others.

He smiled his mischievous grin that he was well known for and smirked very slightly as she made her way from the dance floor over to his table. Peter sat back, smug as always, as Gray and Trace argued over what to order. This was a typical Friday night for him.

She was more nervous than she had thought she was. Wendy tripped right before she got to the table and fell on top of one of the twins. "Sorry!" she squeaked nervously. "I was just... I just.." She blushed, avoiding looking at any of the boys.

"He doesn't mind," Peter said. "This is the most action Ben's ever gotten." He gave an amused grin, his face lighting up in a way his friends had never seen before. This was very unlike Peter.

"Oh. OH!" Wendy quickly got up. "Um.."

"I'm Peter," said the boy in the corner with the messy ginger hair. The girl looked up, her blue eyes meeting his green.

-Uneverything

Six.

--

All he had was one rose; an enchanted rose, that bloomed the colour of his heart. She had raised it herself from an ordinary bush, feeding it on her song. Then, when it was ready, she had plucked it from the stem and placed it in a cider bottle, two leaves like wings behind its crimson. In two years, it had never wilted, never died, not even when she left.

Damian regarded the rose, and sniffed its heady perfume. It was a signature scent, and it was a good one. The best perfumes always smelled like a promise of what the wearer might give, as well as a threat of what she might take away. Though this particular rose had but two thorns, Damian still felt stung. It had gotten him with its aroma, tapping into the most basic and instinctive of his senses. Fey had been capable of cruelty, when she saw a reason for it. Clearly, he reflected, she had known when she made this gift that she would not be around longer than she could help.

Silently, the stem of the rose still clutched between his thumb and forefinger, Damian recalled the circumstances under which he and Fey had met. She had been at the bottom of his garden, down where the moss seeped up between cracks in the cobblestones and the nasturtiums flourished, when he had demanded to know what the hell she was doing on his property.

‘You can see me!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, I can bloody well see you,’ I had replied. ‘It’s broad daylight. What on the ruddy earth are you doing here in my yard?’

‘I’m making the clover grow,’ she answered simply, and that had been the beginning of it.

Ever since that day, he had never been able to rid himself of the jewel-like, fairy dust sparkle in Fey’s eyes, which always seemed to find him no matter where he was looking. He had been fascinated by the angles in her face, the sharp cheekbones and tiny, pointed nose. He had always been put in mind, when looking at the way her bones protruded above the back of her strapless dresses, of a pair of wings. It was as though they were folded quietly, hiding there just out of sight, waiting for the right opportunity to emerge.

And emerge they had. When Fey left, she left nothing but a note; a simple scrawled line to say goodbye, without any thanks for what she had been given. The note explained that she was gone, never to return. Those words stung, but worst thing about the note was the part that Damian couldn’t read. Two lines were written in Faeren, the language of symbols no mortal human being could understand. Thought just a small bouquet of jumbled signs, those runes would haunt him to his dying day, he knew it. That was just the way it was with fairies.

--

From Fairy.

10. Beautiful, beautiful piece of work. I may actually have to go and read all of that. I have a complete obsession with the fair folk. The only thing I saw odd was the dialogue here:

‘Yes, I can bloody well see you,’ I had replied. ‘It’s broad daylight. What on the ruddy earth are you doing here in my yard?’

I don't think it should be 'I had replied.' Everything else is in third person, so it should be 'he.'

- - -

I would just like to take a moment to note how complex the emotion love is. It, as a force, can grant humans the motivation and power to move moments, start and stop wars, and do other wondrous acts. It's a strange feeling that interferes with your thoughts, dreams, and body. When you're in love you share mutual interests with a person. They are the first thing you think of in the morning, and the last at night. When you're in love even a simple thing like a cool breeze on a summer day can remind you of your lover. On the physical side, love causes your blood to pump, your heart to race, your palms and armpits to sweat, and for you to babble and become more nervous than you'd ever thought possible.

And that's just how complicated it is for humans. To me, a vampire, love is not a force or a feeling, but a memory. Our blood does not pump, we do not have beating hearts to race, and we lack the working glands that cause sweat. We only feel butterflies in our stomach as piercing hunger pains and our first and prominent thought is food above all else. However, if a vampire is to fall in love with another being, the emotions they feel are just memories what had been before.

I didn't love Penelope, no, but there was definitely a tingle of life trickling through my body when I was with her. We walked around the deserted streets of her small town, a place she'd been her whole life. Her caramel eyes were often guarded as she spoke and years of calculation of the human behavior had given it away that she hated it here. She was jaded from years of misunderstanding and mistreatment. It was all too easy to assume the beautiful girl was the most liked, but in reality her bad attitude and unwillingness to trust pushed those close to her away. She kept friends but never let anyone truly know her. And I only knew this from the time I'd spent watching her the past year and a half.

Creepy, I know. But hey, I'm a vampire. Teen girls are supposed to eat that shit up, right?

"What do you want to do? After you graduate, I mean." She asked out of the blue. My eyes shot in her direction and I just stared for a moment. We were wandering away from a small street illuminated by dim streetlights. Even this far away from them, they still lit her up from behind in a soft night-blue light. Her hair became the color of the moon and her eyes were as dark as midnight. that made her all the more vulnerable, whether she knew it or not. She looked as if she were a newborn fawn, discovering her very first breath in the middle of a harsh winter. She was tainted innocence- a heavenly creature who has gone through so much hell.

"I, uh," I thought for a moment. Would I stay here another two years and graduate? They'd notice eventually that I hadn't aged a day. So little time had passed so far, they wouldn't be able to tell yet, but someone would sooner or later and you can only tamper with so many people's brains before it becomes impossible to keep all the facts straight in every single mind. No, I would leave. Six more months, tops. "I want to travel."

It wasn't a lie. I'd move onto another town, charm another couple into moving around with me and enrolling me into another school. Stuck at age fifteen is not a good thing at all- noticeably young enough to always have to be in school each time I move around, lest people get suspicious.

"Take me with you?" She whispered with a laugh, but I knew she wasn't kidding. It was the brutal innocence of the question, and the soft past that flew through her whisper that made my dead heart ache for her.

"You wouldn't like it, where I want to go," I said, trying to dissuade her.

"I don't care where I go, as long as it's not here. My life is better than going to college and getting some job I'll hate. I could even like it and still hate it. There's more to life than being so human, y'know?"

"I know all too well."

- From Lackluster

9. Your voice is strong and it all flows well. It's very enjoyable to read.

---

“What is that?”

It starts out as a routine day on the bridge. That’s how it always begins – by following each normal step of waking up, of dressing, of eating, of working. Starfleet is just one big routine, where every hour is scheduled and logged and watched, by some high ranking desk officials who went to space at one point in their careers but have since forgotten the smell of recycled air and dilithium, the restlessness that comes from seeing the same sleek walls and rec rooms for five straight years. Routine promotes a feeling of safety, as if everything is precisely as it should be and nothing can possibly go wrong.

Space, however, doesn’t know anything about routines, or schedules, or logs. It merely exists, in utter spontaneity. “The disturbance appears to be gaseous in form and exhibits high levels of energy. While my sensors cannot read precisely what type of energy we are dealing with, the amounts lead me to postulate a form of radiation, perhaps yet unknown to the Federation.” There is nothing better than the calm voice of a Vulcan, stating facts in that deliberate, clipped tone, one that demonstrates an incredibly intellect without pride or ego. Some captains have multiple first officers during their careers, for one reason or another; I’ve always had just the one. There could never be anyone else.

“Which means it has the potential to be a danger.” Anything not previously categorized is dangerous. Every eye on the bridge immediately begins to view this pulsating entity on the view screen with suspicion. “Take us down to impulse power, Mr. Sulu. We’ll get a little bit closer and see if we can’t make sense of it.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

All it takes is a blink of an eye. I am on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, surrounded by my crew, working diligently at their posts. First Officer Spock has just stood up from his sensors, turning to face me. In a moment, he will stand by my chair, as I sit down on it, and we will survey the image together. He may put his hand on the back of my chair; he may not.

Blink.

Everyone is gone. The lights are still on, buttons blinking on the helm, the engine whirring underneath my feet. But the seats are empty, and there’s a silence about the ship that can only come from the absence of all other living beings. There is definitely no hand on the back of my chair.

- incomplete star trek tos fic.