Long Title

Layout, and the comm in general

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 02:19:55 GMT

Hi guys!

I got bored with the layout and started messing around...I upgraded the community's account to Plus but even still access to layouts was limited. There were a couple of different layouts that I really liked but couldn't use for LT because you need a Paid account to do so.

Anyway - I would really like to see this community come alive, so if you know anyone who is interested in Monkees fanfiction (even more so if they are interested in writing it) please encourage them to visit here and post.

Also - if anyone would be interested in creating a custom layout for this group, please let me know. I would love to have a Monkees/writing-oriented layout, but have no idea how to create one, or even how to go about implementing it.

Thanks!

In Love with a 99 lb Weakling pt. 2A

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 02:18:23 GMT

TITLE: In Love with a 99 lb. Weakling pt. 2A
AUTHOR: Cin
RATING: R/NC-17 (due to some possible strong language and het sexual situations)
SUMMARY: My take on the events of "99 lb. Weakling"
WARNINGS: See rating.
GENRE: Series/AU
PAIRING: Micky/Brenda, Micky/OFC

Micky rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling for countless minutes before finally giving up on sleep. He leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp; since Mike was off in Texas for his cousin Lucy’s wedding, Micky had the upstairs bedroom all to himself, and therefore he didn’t have to worry about waking up his roommate.

He got out of bed and padded out to the landing, thinking that maybe a midnight snack would help him sleep. He carefully made his way down the tornado staircase, partially because he didn’t want to wake up Davy and Peter and partly because of the dark. His eyes soon adjusted, however, and he made his way into the kitchen. He switched on the small light above the sink and made himself a Dagwood sandwich.

Munching on his snack, he walked over to the large window overlooking the verandah, staring out at the bright stars shining over the dark ocean, his mind in turmoil. He couldn’t get the image of Cady’s stricken face out of his head, and the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. He honestly hadn’t meant to hurt her; he’d been so angered by what she’d said about Brenda that he hadn’t been thinking clearly, and the words had rushed from his lips before he could stop them.

But now that he had had time to calm down and think about what Cady had said, he realized with sadness that his friend was right – he was much more interested in Brenda than Brenda was in him. He’d seen her practically run down the beach to Bulk’s side, even though Cady thought he hadn’t, and it had hurt. He really cared about Brenda – okay, so maybe she wasn’t very intelligent and she was kind of superficial, but she was so beautiful he couldn’t tear his eyes from her – and he was determined to win her away from Bulk.

But how? he wondered. While Micky wasn’t a stork like Mike, he was nowhere near Bulk’s level of fitness, and apparently Brenda dug guys with big muscles. If only there was a way that I could make myself look like Bulk….

Suddenly an idea hit him, and he raced over to the coffee table, digging out the car magazine he’d been reading earlier from the pile that was stacked there. Excitedly he flipped through the pages until he found the classifieds – and the ad he was searching for.

SHAH-KU’S HEALTH AND STRENGTH

Are you a 99 lb. weakling?
Do bullies kick sand in your face at the beach?
Come visit Shah-Ku and go from weakling to bodybuilder in less than 30 days!
100% guaranteed!

24 Malibu Street
Malibu, Calif.
MALibu 5447

That was it! The very way to win Brenda over! He decided to visit Shah-Ku’s office first thing in the morning and get more information on the bodybuilding program. I’m not a weakling, but if it’ll help me get Brenda, I’m all for it! he thought. And then, once I’ve got Brenda, I can fix things with Cady. She’ll come around, we’ve been friends forever! She can’t stay mad at me…

Feeling content now that he had found solutions to his problems, Micky went back upstairs to his room and crawled back into bed, turning off the light before immediately falling asleep. His dreams that night were filled with images of beating up Bulk and gaining Brenda’s love, and of Cady apologizing for doubting that he could ever win Brenda’s heart.

Old but hopefully not moldy ;)

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 23:57:14 GMT

Hello!

If there are any old timer fans here, they might remember me as "Madame" or "Maddy". I wrote Monkees fic ten years ago (oy... time flies). I've just updated my website to include all my old Monkees stories, including the collaborations I wrote with Enola, so I thought I'd share the link if anyone is interested.

http://remembrall.slashcity.net

I don't think these stories - except the collaborations - can be found anywhere online except the ones posted to the Long Title mailing list, but I'm planning to keep them up for nostalgia's sake.

In Love with a 99 lb. Weakling pt. 1B

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 23:45:45 GMT

TITLE: In Love with a 99 lb. Weakling pt. 1B
AUTHOR: Cin
RATING: R/NC-17 (for some possible strong language and het sexual situations)
SUMMARY: My take on the events of "99 lb. Weakling"
WARNINGS: See rating.
GENRE: Series/AU
PAIRING: Micky/Brenda, Micky/OFC

~1B~

That night Cady lay in her bed, unable to sleep. All she could see in her mind was Micky’s angry face at the beach that afternoon, and his hurtful words rang in her ears over and over again until she finally clapped her hands to the sides of her head in a vain attempt to silence them.

It didn’t work.

Was he right? Was she really trying to break them up because she was jealous of Brenda?

Yes, she was jealous, she admitted to herself, but she wasn’t petty enough to split them up for her own purposes. As unhappy as she was at the reality of Micky having a girlfriend other than herself, she thought that she could probably live with it. What she couldn’t live with was the thought of that girlfriend being Brenda, of Brenda breaking Micky’s heart and ruining that playful, childlike quality that she loved so about him. She knew without a doubt that it would happen – she remembered the cozy way Brenda had been strolling with the muscle man, whose name was Bulk, she’d discovered – and she didn’t want Micky to have to go through that kind of pain, despite the fact that he’d wounded her badly with his quick comeback that afternoon.

Cady usually spent her Friday and Saturday nights either studying at home in her apartment, at the Vincent Van Go-Go or some such other club watching the Monkees perform, or out with a group of friends – but rarely did she go out with one particular guy. It wasn’t her fault, though, she thought. When she did date, she always compared the guy to Micky in her head, and every date fell short every time. She’d tried everything she could think of to stop herself from falling into this destructive habit, but she couldn’t break it.

Even now, flashes of memory ran through her mind like a movie on a projection screen: the play of muscles in his tanned back as he leaped in the air to smack the volleyball; the way his forehead scrunched and his eyes closed when he sang; his strong but artistic hands gripping the sticks as he played his drums; his lean yet athletic body dripping wet, trunks clinging to him like a second skin as he emerged from the ocean…

Her blood was racing hot through her body, making her restless and wide awake.

She rose from her bed and wandered out into the living room, onto the balcony. A light ocean breeze skimmed through the thin cotton of her nightgown and cooled her skin, causing her to shiver slightly. She stared up at the sky full of stars, her hands resting on the balcony railing. Another love she and Micky had in common was astronomy; there had been many a night that he had brought over his telescope to set up on her balcony and they had excitedly searched out constellations in the sky that they had read about in school.

Everything she saw reminded her of him in some way or another, and she couldn’t escape it. He was a huge part of her life, and to cut him off would be like cutting off a part of her body. She didn’t see how she was going to be able to do it, and tears slid down her cheeks as she turned and went back inside.

There was only one way she was ever going to get any sleep, and she cursed herself for being this weak.

A few months ago, the guys had been having trouble getting gigs and were trying to come up with ways to find new clubs to perform at. Mike had said that if they only had a way for the club owners to hear them play without actually coming out to a gig, they could get the edge on some of the other bands out there. Cady told them that both she and her neighbor Deena had reel-to-reel tape recorders/players, and she would be more than happy to record them one night and make copies of the recording for them to give to club owners. The plan had been a resounding success, the club owners impressed with the Monkees’ inventiveness, and now the guys had offers for more gigs than they could possibly play.

Cady still had the original recording she’d made, and when she’d had a particularly bad day, or was having trouble sleeping, she would play it, the sound of Micky’s voice relaxing and soothing her soul. She was afraid of what would happen if Micky ever found out that she did this, but she couldn’t help herself.

She fast-forwarded the tape to her favorite song and then curled up on the couch. It had been a new song that Mike had written, debuted that night, and he’d asked Micky to sing it, thinking that Micky’s voice suited it better than his own.

I’ve known for a long time the kind of girl you are
Of a smile that covers teardrops
The way your head yields to your heart
Of things you’ve kept inside that most girls couldn’t bear
I’ve known you for a long time but I’ve just begun to care….

Closing her eyes, she slipped into her favorite daydream, that Micky was singing the song to her and meaning every word, and fell into peaceful sleep, hoping that maybe he was thinking of her too.

In Love with a 99 lb. Weakling 1A

Tue, 29 May 2007 01:19:35 GMT

TITLE: In Love with a 99 lb. Weakling
PART: 1A
AUTHOR: Cin
RATING: R/NC-17 (for some language and het sexual contact)
SUMMARY: My take on the events of "99 lb. Weakling".
WARNINGS: See rating.
GENRE: Series/AU
PAIRING: Micky/Brenda, Micky/OFC
NOTES: This was originally posted at the Long_Title Yahoo community a few years back, under the title "I've Just Begun to Care." I decided to dust it off and play in this universe some more, made a title change, and have been fine-tuning it somewhat. Also please note that my chapters are a bit long for LJ, so they will be split into parts A, B, etc. Feedback would be appreciated!

Cross-posted to monkeesfic

Cady Hansen sat on her blanket, knees pulled up to her chest, completely oblivious to the beauty of the Malibu beach that surrounded her.

She was only aware of one thing.

If that blond bimbo opens her mouth one more time, I’ll strangle her with my bare hands! she murderously thought, casting a nasty glare at the bored-looking girl who sat on Micky’s other side.

Cady didn’t understand Micky’s attraction to the other girl at all; she’d puzzled over it for weeks now but was no closer to an answer than she’d been when she’d started. Normally he dated girls who were not only pretty but who liked to have a good time, who had a well-developed sense of humor, and who could carry on a decent conversation.

Brenda had none of the above qualities.

When Micky had suggested swimming, she turned him down, because she didn’t want to get her hair wet and she was afraid the salt water would ruin her new bikini. Davy started a rousing game of volleyball with some other friends of theirs, but Brenda didn’t want to participate because she hated getting sweaty. This was a fact she stated with a pointed look at Cady, who’d been the first to jump up and volunteer to play. And when Brenda wasn’t talking about fashion and makeup, she was staring at the muscled hunk showing off for a small group of swooning girls gathered at the other end of the beach, while all the time Micky gazed at her with such adoration that it made Cady’s heart ache with envy.

It’s not fair, she petulantly thought, throwing herself down on her blanket stomach-first, and rested her chin on her forearms, trying to sneak glances at Micky without him noticing.

He wore red swim trunks, still damp from his most recent – albeit brief – foray into the water, and droplets still clung to his lean, tanned chest and arms, his hair softly curling against his forehead and neck as it slowly dried in the light summer breeze. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his giggles wafted through the air as he attempted to finish the punchline to the joke he’d been telling Brenda, but the girl didn’t so much as crack a smile.

Cady thrust her hot face into her arms, growing more miserable by the minute. Stop it, she abruptly ordered herself. Why torture yourself? You and Micky…it’ll never happen, not as long as he’s into Brenda…

Cady had known Micky ever since she’d moved to Malibu with her family when she was sixteen; on her first day of school she’d been assigned a student guide to take her around and show her the ropes, and that guide had been Micky’s sister Coco. Not only had the two girls become fast friends, but so had Micky and Cady.

Lately she’d realized that her feelings for Micky had somehow changed without her even noticing it – slowly mutating from friendship into mutual attraction – but before she could work up the courage to tell him what she’d discovered, he’d met Brenda while surfing one afternoon and had been head over heels for the blonde ever since.

While she was attractive in her own right, Cady knew that she was no match for Brenda – Brenda was petite and curvy; Cady was tall and brunette, with lanky, coltish legs, a small bust, and slim hips. Around Brenda Cady felt like an awkward tomboy, uncomfortable in her own skin, and for a girl who’d always thought she knew exactly who she was, it was an unsettling sensation.

“Well, I’m going to go talk to some friends,” Brenda said as she gathered up her things and stood up.

“See you later,” Micky said, eagerly jumping up for a kiss, but by the time he got to his feet, Brenda was already sauntering her way down the beach toward the muscle man, leaving a sea of dropped male jaws in her wake.

Micky, however, seemed to be oblivious to Brenda’s true reason for leaving. He plopped back down on his blanket and turned smiling brown eyes to Cady. “Isn’t she great, Cady?”

“Yeah, great,” Cady mumbled, rolling her eyes, which Micky didn’t notice.

“You know, I’ve had lots of girlfriends before, but I think this time I’m really in love.”

Cady nearly choked at his words. “You what?”

Micky nodded enthusiastically. “I think Brenda’s the one.”

Cady peered over his shoulder, only to spot Brenda and the muscle man strolling further down the beach together, hand-in-hand. What am I going to do? she desperately thought, but her mouth was moving even before her brain had finished thinking the question.

“Are you out of your mind?!” she asked Micky, who jolted back as if she’d slapped him. “That has got to be the most irritating girl I’ve ever met in my life! She’s an empty shell, Micky, there’s nothing to her besides her looks! She’s completely self-centered; she doesn’t want to do anything that remotely resembles fun because she might mess up her clothes or her hair or her makeup; she can’t carry on any sort of intelligent conversation; and she treats you like her own personal slave!”

Micky stared at her, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a fish’s, until he finally found his voice. “You’re just jealous!” he accused, pointing at her.

“I’m what?” she cried, her eyes widening in horror. Had he somehow guessed her secret?

“Jealous because I’ve been spending all my time with Brenda instead of you,” he continued.

“All your time following her around like a little lapdog, more like,” Cady shot back. “At least you and I can debate – what do you talk about with her, which color lipstick you prefer to suck off her lips?”

Micky’s eyes turned dark and stormy with anger, and if Cady hadn’t been so angry herself, she would have shivered at the passion in their depths. “At least I can get a date! How long has it been since you’ve had one, Cady?”

She felt as if he’d punched her in the stomach, and for a moment she couldn’t respond as hot tears filled her eyes. God, don’t let me cry in front of him, she begged, trying to gather up the shreds of her self-control. She’d never fought with Micky before, and now with the knowledge of her new feelings for him, she felt doubly as hurt, but she knew that she couldn’t apologize for being truthful with him. They had pledged honesty to each other in the beginning seeds of their friendship, and she couldn’t go back on that vow, even if it meant possibly losing Micky forever.

Gracefully she rose to her feet and snatched her blanket from the sand. “Suit yourself, Micky. But when Brenda breaks your heart, don’t come running to cry on my shoulder.”

She turned around and stalked towards the street, her feet kicking up small clouds of sand behind her. All the while she forced herself to take each step forward and not look back.

“Cady? Cady, wait up!” It was not the voice she’d hoped to hear, though; instead it was that of Peter, coming from behind her.

She didn’t stop or even slow down, and Peter finally caught up with her, grabbing her arm. “What happened? Did you and Micky have a fight or something?”

Cady fixed icy green eyes on him. “I told him the truth about Brenda. He wasn’t ready to hear it.”

“But Cady, whatever he said –“

“Peter, please. I don’t want to talk about Micky anymore. As a matter of fact, I don’t care if I ever see him again.”

With that said, she jerked her arm free from Peter’s grasp and continued her brisk pace, heading in the direction of her apartment building, which was one block over from the Monkees’ beach house.

Peter stood there for a moment, wringing his hands worriedly, before running back to Micky. “Micky, what happened with you and Cady?”

Micky glared up at the bassist, hurt evident in his dark eyes. “She’s so jealous over me digging Brenda that she’s trying to break us up! Can you believe that?”

“No, man, Cady wouldn’t –“

“She made it sound like I’m not good enough for Brenda, that I’m just Brenda’s little lapdog! Well, I’ll show her!” With that Micky leaped to his feet and stormed back to the Pad, muttering the entire way.

Tears welled up in Peter’s eyes, and he stared forlornly at the seagulls swooping lower over the ocean in search of fish. “I wish Mike were here…”

What? Dawn is posting? OH NOES!

Sat, 18 Mar 2006 04:50:55 GMT

Okay, so, before I continue on with this, I must ask you to do me a favor if you haven't done so before. Go read Double Booked. Hell, if you've read it already, re-read it. It's even better the second (or fifth, or fifteenth) time around!

So, you may be thinking, "Dawn, why are you flogging that damn fanfic yet again?" Well, there's a very good reason for that... this post right here contains the first part of the sequel to "Double Booked". OH SNAP. The apocalypse is surely upon us!

Anyway. This fanfic right here is based on another fanfic, When (Where?) You Least Expect It, by Sherrie. Once upon a couple of years ago, I asked her if I could take the basic plot she outlined and make it, like, funny. And she said I could.

It's only taken me about three years to do anything with it. I think that's pretty good for a slacker like myself.

So, without further ado, here is some crap.

Title: Blue Roses For A Red Lady 1/???
Author: Dawn
Rating: Probably PG, once I'm done with it
Genre: Romance (mostly fake)/Comedy (mostly dumb)
Archive: Yes, self, I would like to archive this when I finish this.

======

Scene one: Interior. Day. The kitchen at 1332 Beechwood. The room – and, with that, the entire house – seems to be randomly thrown together, with old rickety items, such as the kitchen table, matched with newer items molded out of the finest plastics, such as the kitchen chairs. Sheena, Benny, and Andrea are sitting around the table in these chairs.

Benny: (smiling) …And so I say, “Look, mister, you can stay, but the horse’ll have to step outside!” (starts laughing)

Sheena and Andrea laugh hysterically. Abruptly, Andrea stops.

Andrea: (confused) I don’t get it.

Sheena: (sighs as she attempts to regain her composure, patting Andrea on the head) We’ll explain it to you when you’re older.

Just then, a bloodcurdling scream erupts from outside, making all three girls jump out of their seats. They are about to head outside to see what all the fuss is about when in runs Isabel, still screaming as she holds a telegram in both hands.

Isabel: (stops screaming as she paces the floor, still holding the telegram) Oh no, oh no, oh no – my life is over! I’m gonna die.

Benny: (smirking; nonchalantly) What happened – you get drafted? (flinches as she receives an elbow to the ribs from Sheena)

Isabel: (plops down on the sofa) If only. (lets out a whine as she throws her head back, staring up at the ceiling, covering her face with the telegram)

Sheena: (concerned) Isabel, what’s goin’ on? (sits down next to Isabel on the couch) Are you alright?

Isabel: (lets out another pitiful whine, not moving from her position) About as well as a dead woman walking can be.

Andrea: (sits down next to Sheena on the couch’s armrest) Come on, Isabel – we’re your friends. (smiles) You can tell us what’s wrong.

Isabel: (nervously as she sits up, removing the telegram from her face and tossing it on the table) It’s just that… well… my mother is coming to visit for the weekend!

Isabel immediately hides her face in her hands, whimpering. Sheena and Andrea exchange confused looks at this revelation.

Benny: (panicky) Oh, the humanity! This is terrible! Awful! Simply… (finally realizes what was said) Wait a minute. That’s it? You’re so upset that your mother is coming over? (scoffs)

Isabel: (weakly) Well, no – that’s not it, exactly…

Sheena: (sideways look) Uh-oh. I feel a convoluted story coming on.

Isabel: Well, you see, my mother’s been nagging me about coming back home…

Sheena: (muttering as Isabel continues her story) I knew it. Time to go take some aspirin for the headache I’m sure to have after this…

Isabel: She’s always – (mockingly puts on a terrible Scottish accent, placing her hands on her hips) “Why don’t you come home, Isabel?” “I’m sure you can study nuclear physics here at the local college, Isabel.” “There are plenty of men here for you to give me grandbabies, Isabel!” (normal voice; frustrated) She keeps trying to get me to come home! (throws her hands up in the air in frustration) And it’s always like that every single time we talk on the phone!

Andrea: (furrows brow) So why do you keep talking to her?

Isabel: (as if it’s plainly obvious) She’s my mother!

Benny: (rolls eyes at this) And this has to do with her visiting because…?

Isabel: (sighs heavily) Well, the last time she called, I kinda… you know… gave her a reason why I couldn’t go home…

Benny: (almost too afraid to ask) And what, pray tell, was this reason?

Isabel: (wrings hands together) Well, I told her… I told her that…

Cut to –

Interior. Day. The Monkees’ living room. Close up on –

Mike: (incredulously) She told her mother she was married!?

Sheena: (now attempting to take the entire bottle of aspirin; mouth full of pills) Yes. Oh dear sweet goodness yes. (pause) Got any water?

Mike shakes his head and hands Sheena a small trash bin. Sheena feigns a smile and walks off-screen with the trash bin, presumably to spit up all the pills she attempted to swallow.

Davy: You know, for such a smart girl, Isabel does some pretty dumb things sometimes. (shakes head, letting out a chuckle)

Benny: Tell me about it. (laughs)

Isabel: (suddenly pops onscreen; huffs) You know, you can stop talking about me like I’m not here any time now, guys! (folds arms across her chest as she plops down on the sofa in between Andrea and Peter, sighing heavily) So now what do I do? (sadly) If she finds out I’m not married, she’ll make me come back home.

Micky: (pats Isabel on the shoulder) Well, if we can help you in any way, just let us know, okay? (smiles reassuringly)

Isabel: (giving him a desperate look as she grasps onto his sleeve) Would you marry me? (weak laugh)

Micky: (pulls his hand back as if she had suddenly burst into flames) Well, uh – (coughs and clears throat, tugging at his collar) I don’t think, uh –

Mike: (placing a hand on his chin, thinking aloud) Well, now that ain’t such a bad idea…

Micky: (stammering) W-w-wait, what, huh!? (panicked) I-I-I can’t get married! I’m too young to get married!

Mike: (rolls eyes heavenward, shaking his head) Micky. I’m not saying you need to get married to her. I’m saying that you pretend to be married to her for the weekend while her mother’s in town. You just pack up your stuff and live next door for a few days, and her mother won’t suspect a thing. (nods once, smiling)

Micky: (annoyed by this) Hey, now wait a minute – why do I have to do it? Why not Davy or Peter or-or you?

Mike: (deadpan) So you’re tellin’ me that you wouldn’t want to be mostly alone. With a cute girl. For the whole weekend.

Micky: (slight pause) You talked me into it. (taking Isabel’s hand in his own; in a mock-serious tone) I would be more than happy to assist you in your time of need, my dear. (kisses the back of her hand, grinning)

Sheena: (returning from coughing up the aspirin, wiping her mouth with her sleeve) Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but what about us? (motions toward herself, Benny, and Andrea) What are we gonna do?

Benny: We could stay at the house and pretend to be Mormons. (smiles widely)

Sheena: (stares at Benny, a little horrified, for a while, then looks at the camera) If any Mormons were insulted by that last joke, please feel free to write us at the following address.

She pulls a sign from off-screen which reads the following:

Bobert Schnafelson
C/O Mammoth Studios
Walla Walla, Washington 55169

She then tosses it off-screen, which makes a crashing noise, and walks back toward the rest of the group, grumbling.

Mike: (pondering this) Well, maybe you could –

Peter: (gets an idea) You can stay here for the weekend!

Andrea: (gasps, then cheers) It’d be like a sleepover! Yay! (chanting in a sing-song voice as she bounces around the room) Sleepover, sleepover, sleepover…

Andrea keeps bouncing around as Isabel, Micky, Davy, Benny, and Peter get up and start heading toward the door. Mike, however, stays put, looking especially pained at the prospect of sharing a house with the girls. Again.

Sheena: (smirks as she leans against Mike) Ah, just like old times, huh? (bats eyelashes)

Mike: (grunts, trying to shrug her off) Would it be too late to make you sleep in the car?

Sheena: I mean, if you really wanna make Andrea cry…

Mike: (weak laugh; muttering) That sensitive, huh?

Sheena: (nods, mutters back) She cries at card tricks, Mike.

Mike: (sighing) Great. I shoulda never opened my big mouth. (fade to black)

Gasp! Actual fic!

Sat, 30 Apr 2005 11:18:37 GMT

Title: STFU, n00b
Author: Caroline
Rating: PG
Archive: At my site

Mike had a splitting headache. Micky was playing the drums. Mike
didn't think this was a very good combination.

"Micky, would you please stop that? My head feels like it's gonna
split in two."

Ba ba ba da dum ching!

"Micky, can you quit with the drumming? Head is hurting."

Da da dum ba da da ba da da ba da da dum ching ching dum!

"Micky! Stop it, will ya!"

Dum da ching ba da ba da dum ba ba ba ba bom cha ching ba da ching ba
da da da dum!

"MICKY! STFU!"

Ba da dum da -- "What?"

"I said, stop drummin' because I have a headache." Mike replied as he
lay back down on the couch.

Micky looked at him. "No, what did you say after that?"

"I said shut up," Mike replied, covering his head with a cushion.

"No you didn't. You said something else."

"I said shut up," he said before adding in a quick sotto voce,
"essentially." Mike looked over at him from under the cushion. "And it
still stands."

"Essentially? What did you really say then? I know you didn't say shut
up." Micky set his drumsticks on the snare and went over to Mike.
"Enquiring minds want to know."

"Enquiring minds don't need to know, only that it means shut up. And
if you don't Micky, you'll only be seeing your drumsticks for
rehearsals and gigs."

Micky ignored him. "It sounded something like 'Ester of you'."

"If you hadn't of been drumming so loud, you would have heard."

"Heard what?"

"STFU," Mike replied before he realised he said it. His wince was hidden.

"Esteeefyou? What kind of word is that?" Micky asked in surprise.

Mike sighed. Now he had to explain it. "Not Esteeefyou. S T F U. It
means shut up."

"Mike," Micky said standing up, "I think you've been spending too much
time with that pregnant chick."

Mike pulled the cushion from his face and stared at Micky. "What?"

"No wonder you have a headache, these new words she's been teaching
you are totally mind blowing."

"Oh, you mean Caroline. She's not pregnant anymore."

"Well whatever, she's still weird. And so are you."

Mike grinned. "Yeah, I know. Isn't it great?"

Micky opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, deciding
that he couldn't think of anything. He walked off shaking his head as
he heard Mike laughing into the pillow. There was no cure for insanity.

brushes away cobwebs

Sat, 19 Mar 2005 07:53:01 GMT

I sent this to the mailing list, but I felt like posting it here as well.

Title: Welcome to my world
Author: Caroline
Genre: Lister/clone

"I want to come too!"

Caroline turned and looked down at her eldest child. She was jumping
up and down on the spot with her pet cybernetic lizard, Lidded.

"Ok Emmy, you can come. But you have to stay with me, and do as I say."

"Yay!" Emmy ran to the door and started to open it.

"You need your shoes on first, and Lidded has to stay here," Caroline
told the three year old as she placed Abby, the youngest triplet into
the pram.

Emmy put Lidded down and went to find her shoes. She returned several
minutes later with shoes on. Caroline dressed her in a light jacket
and looked down at her feet. "Do you want to swap your shoes around so
they're on the right feet?"

"No, I don't need to."

"Are you sure? You might get sore feet."

"I won't get sore feet. I want to go," Emmy frowned.

"Ok, fine. Let's go."

Pushing the pram out the door, Caroline watched as Emmy ran down to
the end of the path. "Wait for me, Emily."

"I are waiting!"

"Good. You need to stay with me," Caroline instructed as they started
walking.

"Look, Mama! I gotted a fower!" Emmy exclaimed, holding out a small
red flower she picked from someone's garden.

"It's beautiful."

"Mama, where are we going?"

"We're going to the Library."

"The Libewwy? There are lots of books in the Libewwy. I want some
dinosaur books."

"We're not getting books from the Library today. We're going to a
different part. The part Shade came from."

"What part did Sade come fwom? Are we getting anubber Sade?"

"No, we're not getting another Shade. We're getting a pet."

Emmy stopped to pick up a black rock and put it in her pocket. "A pet?
What pet are we getting? I want a dinosaur!"

"Dinosaurs are too big. They won't fit in our house."

"Awww, but I wanted one. I want a Allasawus."

"An Allosaurus would eat everyone. Do you want to be eaten up?"

"No! Betause Allasawuses eat peoples!"

"That's right, so we're going to get a cat or a dog instead."

"A cat or a dog? I want a..." she paused to consider. "I want a cat
AND a dog!"

"We can't have both, just one. Which one do you want?"

"Um... I want a cat. And it will say 'meow'!"

Caroline smiled. "It will." She led Emmy through the Library to the
clone room. "Ok Emmy, when we go in here, you can't touch the
computer. It's just for me to touch."

"I want to hab a look at the compooter!"

"Just a look. No touching." She pushed the pram in and parked it near
the wall and went over to the clone machine. Emmy pushed a chair over
to the computer and climbed on it.

"There are lots of buttons!"

"Yes, there are," Caroline replied as she went through the clone
suggestions. Emmy watched with fascination.

Suddenly she gasped, staring at the screen. "It's Dada! And Pel and
Ali and Opal! Why are they in the compooter?"

"It's not them, it's just pictures of them. They're not really in there."

"But they are there! What is Dada doing?"

Caroline looked at the screen. It was the Star Collector video. "He's
pretending to play the guitar."

Emmy giggled. "He's being siwwy!"

"He is being silly," Caroline replied. From her pram, Abby started to
cry and Caroline turned to pick her up. Just as she faced the computer
again, Emmy pressed the clone button. "Emmy, NO!"

She knew she had done the wrong thing. With a 'caught' look on her
face, Emmy snatched her hand away from the controls and climbed off
the chair. She ran towards the door, but a hand grabbed the back of
her jacket. Nothing left to do but cry.

"I TOLD you not to touch! I'm VERY cross! Now we can't have a pet, and
we're not going to get a chocolate milkshake."

"I want one! I want a tocklet milksake!" Emmy wailed. Her face was red,
but only one tear rolled down her cheek as she sat down on the floor
to cry.

Letting her go, Caroline turned to face the clone machine. Four white
clones were staring at her and the crying children. She sighed and ran
her free hand through her hair. "Welcome to my world."

Peace,
Caroline

Help!

Mon, 10 Jan 2005 01:46:37 GMT

A call out to my friends in the Mountain and Pacific Time Zones:

Anyone who could tape tonight's episode of American Dreams for me, I would love you forever and send you cookies and/or brownies. Pretty please? I don't know if this episode will be rerun during the summer, and I must have it on tape.

Thanks in advance!

Thu, 26 Aug 2004 06:54:00 GMT

Title: Raging Wind
Authors: Mich and En
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence (not involving the usual suspects), the usual
Genre: Secrets and Lies

“Hey, Peter! Guess what?”

Peter stopped the forward movement of his kata and turned to face Billy as he sprinted across the beach. His t-shirt was untucked and torn at one edge, and there was a streak of dirt on his cheek, but he was smiling broadly. “I beat ‘em!”

“You beat who?”

Billy took a few moments to catch his breath. His cheeks were bright red, meaning he’d probably run most of the way to the Pad. “There were a couple kids waiting for me after school! They were the same ones who beat me up before, but this time I was ready!” He continued talking breathlessly as he described how he’d been attacked.

Peter frowned, waiting until Billy had finished. “So they attacked you?”

“No, but—”

“Wait.” Peter held up a hand. “So they didn’t make any moves to attack you?”

Billy shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t let ‘em. As soon as they started teasing, POW! I let ‘em have it!”

“So you attacked them?”

Billy nodded. “You shoulda seen it! I wish you coulda been there! It was great!” After a moment his grin faded. Peter didn’t look at all inclinded to share his enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?”

“Billy, you’re not supposed to use your skills on the offensive. They’re supposed to protect you and others; they’re not there to hurt people.”

Billy tilted his head back. “But . . . why else have you been teaching me? I can take care of myself now! They’ll never come after me again, that’s for sure!”

Peter sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not about that. Billy, some of the things I’ve taught you can really hurt people, maybe even kill them. It’s not a power to be taken lightly, and it’s not to be used lightly.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “More of that warrior ethic stuff again? I thought warriors were supposed to fight, not practice and train to NOT fight!”

“That’s Radcliffe talking,” Peter said, keeping his voice calm even as anger slowly churned in his stomach. “Being a warrior is more about what’s in your mind and heart than in your fists.”

Billy’s eyes once again rolled. “Yeah, and in the meantime you get pounded! I don’t get what the big deal is, Peter! I won!”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Did you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” At his sides, Billy’s hands were slowly starting to clench.

“Did you really win by attacking people who might not have necessarily attacked you? What did you win, besides the right to take the title of ‘bully’?”

For a moment it seemed as if Billy was going to cry; his face scrunched into a look of mingled confusion, hurt, and anger. “I . . . I don’t have to take this.” He swallowed, not quite meeting Peter’s eyes. “I thought you were different, but you’re just the same as Mr. Radcliffe.” He looked up, most of the confusion gone. “And I don’t think I wanna do this anymore.”

Peter’s throat tightened around the harsh words that sprang up. “All right. Quit. I tried to share things with you, things I think are important, that go beyond the fist and the sword. But you’re obviously not interested in learning . . . so I’m not interested in teaching.” With that Peter turned and stalked back towards the Pad, leaning forward as if heading into a strong wind or fighting the urge not to turn back.

Mike looked up as Peter stormed back into the house. He glanced at his watch. “Hey, Peter, aren’t you an’ Billy supposed to be havin’ a lesson?”

Peter didn’t reply. He headed for the fridge, then turned on his heel and headed for the bedroom before stopping and heading for the stairs. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his hand tightly gripping the railing, and turned towards the door.

“Peter.”

Peter stopped, his eyes closing. “What.”

“Sit down. Talk to me.”

Peter sighed, hesitating for only a moment before he turned, stalking across the Pad to the kitchen table.

Mike sat beside him. “What’s the matter?”

The words came rushing out in a very un-Than-like way, spilling over each other and punctuated by Peter’s occasional desperate gasps for air.

There was a moment of silence as Mike thought. “He’ll get it, Peter. He’s still young.”

“But it doesn’t matter. It’s all over. I pushed him away—I told him I didn’t want to teach him anymore.” He put his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I screwed this up.”

Mike reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “Give him an hour or so to cool down—then go explain to him.”

“You’re right, Mike. Maybe we both need to step back and calm down.” Peter smiled. “I think things’ll be fine.”

Billy tracked his way across the beach, kicking a speckled rock aside so hard it stung his toe. He was stupid. Why did he have to go running to Peter and shooting his mouth off? He should have known that Peter wouldn’t approve of what he did, he’d lecture him about honor and all those things that Billy found confusing and boring. Honor was okay, but what good was it when you were being chased in the halls or bullied after school—what good were punches and kicks if you never used them? Wasn’t that what they were for?

He hadn’t attack those kids outright, anyway. They’d been waiting for him after school, taunting him they way they did every single day . . . sneering and teasing him for the way he dressed, talked, looked . . . didn’t Peter understand how much it hurt? How angry it made him? Of course not. Peter probably never had problems with bullies or teasing; he was too confident, too even, too measured. Peter couldn’t possibly know how it felt.

He found a niche between two rocks and settled onto the sand, maneuvering so he could see the beach house. Part of him really wanted Peter to come back out looking for him so he could try to apologize or explain; the other part willed Peter to stay in the house. He wondered if Peter would call his mother. She’d probably be disappointed . . . maybe make him go back to the shaojinshi. The thought made him shudder.

It didn’t take long for him to find the house. The numbers were clearly marked and the enormous red car sitting by the curb was unmistakeable. The closed door and lack of windows on the street side drove him to the path between two of the houses; from there he descended to the beach and backtracked to the freaks’ house. The main level, one with a huge multi-paned bay window, was high up off the beach; Radcliffe didn’t dare climb the stairs. He craned his neck, trying to see inside—all he could see were some metallic shapes that might have been drums. “Musicians,” he muttered. “Figures.” Meddling long-haired hippie druggie freaks, that’s what they were.

Except for the blond. He was a puzzle. It took long years of training to be able to deflect and dodge Lawrence Radcliffe attacks as effectively as he had, but he looked far too young to be as advanced as he obviously was.

He backed away slowly, keeping an eye on the door in case any of them came out. He’d come in the hopes of catching one or more of them outside, though he still wasn’t sure what exactly his intentions were. If it came down to it, he hoped one of them would give him a reason to take them out. Maybe the blond would start something . . .

As he walked something caught his eye and he turned. Someone was sitting in a semicircle of rocks—where the sand had been scraped indicated that the person had started out facing the other way. Radcliffe sidestepped, moving away from the huddled figure when its head lifted and he saw who it was.

“Well, well. Billy.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “M-Mr. Radcliffe!” he stammered, leaping to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” He watched with an odd sort of pleasure as his words, calm and even though they were, made Billy flinch.

“H-Having a lesson. Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?” Billy just shrugged. “That sounds like you, Billy. Everything is done ‘sort of.’”

Billy’s eyes clouded with mingled hurt and anger. “I don’t have to listen to you anymore,” he said. “Y-You’re not my teacher anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. You quit and ran off to learn a couple moves from a long-haired weirdo. So, what have you learned from the freak?” Already his body was starting to loosen, his arms and legs crooking slightly.

“Some things,” Billy murmured. “Peter’s a good teacher.”

Radcliffe snorted. “I’m sure.”

“He is!” Now Billy was defiant. “He never yells or calls me names or knocks me down!”

“All right. Then show me what the freak’s taught you. You sound all ready to prove yourself.” Radcliffe’s fists raised slightly into a loose attack stance.

Billy backed away, shaking his head. “No, I can’t. Peter says . . . he says you should only fight when you have to.”

Radcliffe’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. Now . . . you have to.”

Wed, 25 Aug 2004 04:25:58 GMT

Title: Raging Wind (formerly North Wind)
Authors: Mich and En
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, the usual
Genre: Secrets and Lies

The sun was dipping low in the sky when Billy headed up the stairs to the Pad. “Hey Micky, where do you want me to put this?” he asked, holding up his empty lunch bag.

“Trash would be nice,” Micky grinned, pointing to the basket by the table.

“Where’s Peter?” Mike asked.

“He’s still out there,” Billy replied. “Said he’d be in in a while. He looked kind of funny. Well, I gotta go—see you guys later!”

Both Micky and Davy said ‘goodbye’; Mike merely murmured as he headed for the back door. His tattoo wasn’t twitching but he still wanted to know what Billy meant by “kind of funny.”

The air was brisk, even for late summer. Mike hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his pockets. The last time he’d seen Peter the blond had been barefoot and wearing a sleeveless shirt—even at his most scatterbrained Peter had always known to come in when it was cold.

“Peter!” he called. “C’mon! Time t’come in!”

Peter was sitting on a rock down at the water’s edge. His legs were drawn up to his chest, his chin on his knees. Hard bumps covered his bare arms and his hair fluttered gently in the breeze.

“Peter?” Mike said softly. He walked around until he could see Peter’s face. Tears streamed down the dimple-grooved cheeks, sliding down his jaw and under the collar of his shirt.

But he was smiling.

“Peter? You okay?”

Peter looked up, sniffling a little. “Yeah, I’m fine, Mike.”

“How come you’re cryin’?” It occurred to Mike that he hadn’t seen Peter cry in a while.

“I don’t know.”

“Somethin’ happen with Billy?”

Peter nodded. “It’s so wonderful, Mike . . . I can’t describe it.”

“Fulfillin’, huh?”

Peter just nodded. “Very. Thanks for letting me do this.”

Mike laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

###

“Where is he?”

Mike looked up from from sparring with Davy. “Will you relax? He’s only a few minutes late. He’s coming.” True, it didn’t exactly speak much for Billy that he was late for his third lesson, but Mike knew as well as anyone how easily young people could be distracted. After all, if a simple toilet paper pyramind at the local A&P could snag Micky’s attention . . .

Peter kept pacing, looking from the clock to the door and back again. Billy was supposed to be at the Pad at four o’clock, and it was already a quarter after. Micky sprang by, nearly hitting Peter. “He’s just late, Peter!”

Peter swiped at him, smiling. “Like you?”

Micky stuck out his tongue. “I’m always punctual, you know!”

“Maybe in the next time zone, Micky,” Mike said, returning the tongue.

Peter was about to join them in sparring when the door opened, revealing a torn, grass-stained Billy.

“What happened?” Peter said, bounding over.

“Couple kids,” Billy muttered, wiping the dirt smudge on his cheek. “They were from my class.”

“Did they hurt you?” Mike asked, looking at the darkening bruise on Billy’s cheek. “You cut anywhere?”

“My knees are scraped, and there’s this,” he pointed at the bruise, “but that’s it.”

“We’ll call off the lesson for today,” Peter said. “We can—”

“No!” Billy said. “I want to, okay? Please? I’m okay.”

Peter sighed and looked at Mike. “Hey, shotgun, if he wants to go on, then have the lesson. Couple scrapes and a bruise won’t hurt him.”

“Okay, Billy.” Peter gestured to the beach with his hand. “After you.” He followed his student out onto the sand to the water’s edge. “So what did these kids want?”

Billy traced a circle in the wet sand with his toe. “They said Mr. Radcliffe was real mad I left. They called me a coward, said I was scared, and that I was never any good.”

“And you weren’t,” Peter said softly. He held up his hand as Billy opened his mouth to protest. “Not in that environment. You needed to get away from there to really open up and show what you’re capable of.”

“And what am I capable of?”

“You’re balanced, you have good timing, and you’re strong. You know how to listen and you respond quickly. You just need confidence.” Peter took up position beside him, falling into a relaxed stance.

Billy put up his fists. “How did you get to be so smart, Peter?”

Peter just smiled. “It’s a long story, Billy. Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

###

The next few weeks passed, with Billy coming over almost every day, even when he didn’t have a lesson planned. The Monkees were more than happy to have him around; they didn’t have to hide themselves as much as with other people. Billy didn’t ask many questions.

Although they kept the closet firmly locked, Peter began showing Billy some of their weapons and how they were used. Sometimes the others would join in with the lesson, and though they all ended up instructing Billy at one point or another, there was no question who his teacher was.

One afternoon, following a particularly long session, Peter came back into the Pad sweaty and covered in sand.

“Whoa, shotgun! What happened?” Mike asked, nearly dropping the guitar perched on his knees.

“It’s okay, Mike. We were practicing holds and throws,” Peter said, holding up his hand. He shook his hair out by the door. “He’s getting good.”

Mike relaxed. “He sure seems to like you. I don’t know why,” he said. For a moment Peter blinked, hurt flitting across his face. Then he caught Mike’s subtle grin.

“Real funny,” he said, pulling off his sodden shirt. He balled it up and hurled it at the grinning Texan.

Mike deftly caught it. “So how do you rate his progress, sensei?”

Peter paused his de-sanding. “I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to teach him about honor, but sometimes it seems like I’m not getting through. He’ll listen and nod, but it’s like it’s not getting below the surface.”

Mike frowned. “This is the first I’ve heard of this. How come you haven’t mentioned it before?”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I’m not entirely sure that it isn’t just my imagination.” For a moment Peter stared at the wall, his gaze turned inwards. Then he smiled at Mike. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

He clearly saw the lines of skepticism working their way across Mike’s face but the Horse said nothing. He’d half-expected Mike to continue questioning him, stubbornly as always, not letting him escape with a “don’t worry.” Mike rarely let any of them get away with blowing things off when they could be confronted and discussed and worked out. But so far Mike had yielded control of Billy’s teaching to Peter, and it didn’t look like that was going to change.

###

“So. You know where he’s training?” Radcliffe glared at his eldest student, who stood at parade rest on the other side of his desk.

“Yes sir.”

“Where?” Radcliffe asked, picking up a pencil and moving a piece of paper closer. On it was a list of all the martial arts schools in a twenty mile radius. He’d vaguely considered calling them all himself, but that would have been a little too suspicious. He didn’t want anyone to think that he was getting bent out of shape over a single mediocre student.

“Outside a beach house in Malibu.”

Radcliffe started, the pencil’s sharp point stabbing into the paper. “And . . . which school is that, again?”

“It’s not a school,” the student replied, his voice trembling a little as his sensei glared up at him ferociously. “It’s . . . just a house.”

“A house?” Radcliffe threw the pencil; it lodged deep into the cheap plaster on the other side of the room.

“That’s not all,” the student said, hesitating as if not sure whether he should proceed or not. “The guy who’s teaching him? It’s that guy who came in during . . . during Billy’s last lesson.”

He skittered backwards as Radcliffe launched out of his chair. “That long-haired FREAK? Are you kidding me!?”

The student shook his head. “No, honest! Sometimes the other guys come and practice, too, but mainly it’s the blond one. They’re out there almost every day.”

Radcliffe frowned and turned to the wall behind his desk. Three polished wooden shelves held several rows of trophies, each one with a miniature person in mid-kick. His trophies, earned by his students, who were what they were because of him.

And no long-haired freak was going to take them away from him.

Sun, 15 Aug 2004 03:34:50 GMT

Title: North Wind (working title; may change in future)
Authors: Mich and En
Rating: PG-13, I’d say
Warnings: violence, the usual stuff
Genre: Secrets and Lies

“As soon as his elbow feels better” turned out to be later that same week. Davy fielded the call from Billy, who wanted to know what he needed to bring. “Tell him to wear loose, comfortable clothes and bring lunch with him,” Peter called from across the Pad. Davy relayed the message.

“Hey Peter, he wants to know if he should wear his gi or not!” Davy said.

“No. No uniform,” Peter said.

Mike turned around in his chair. “Any particular reason for that, shotgun?”

Peter shrugged. “It just doesn’t feel right. It’s . . . too formal. And . . . I want to try to distinguish myself as much as possible from Radcliffe.”

Mike snorted. “I don’t blame you there. So what’s the first lesson, sensei?”

“I’m going to see what he knows,” Peter said. “And then go from there.”

“I just thought of something,” Mike said. “Your tattoo.”

“What about it?”

Mike laced his hands behind his head. “If he sees it, don’t you think he’ll ask questions?”

Peter grinned. “I already thought of that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large Band-Aid. “I’ll just cover it up.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t keep wearing a Band-Aid for every lesson. Billy’ll think you’re either very accident prone or you’re tryin’ to hide the pimples on your neck.” Micky giggled at that.

“I’ll think of something else, then,” Peter said, his cheery mood not fading in the slightest. “The Band-Aid’ll do for today.”

Billy arrived almost twenty minutes later, wearing loose, faded khaki pants, a white t-shirt, and carrying his lunch in a brown paper bag. He smiled at them as he entered. “Hi guys.”

“Hey, Billy!” Micky greeted, tossing his comic book aside.

“Down, Micky,” Peter said, moving to the back door. “Work before pleasure. C’mon, Billy.”

Billy followed him down to the beach, looking a little more nervous now that they were alone and away from the house. His arms stayed wrapped around his middle and he looked rather smaller in Peter’s shadow. Peter led him almost to the water’s edge and turned to face him. “So, tell me what you know.”

“A-About what?”

“Fighting. What did Mr. Radcliffe teach you?”

Billy paused, staring thoughfully at the sand. “Punches, kicks . . . he said I wasn’t good enough to learn anything else.”

Peter’s voice was gentle. “Show me.”

Billy nodded, putting his fists up in an awkward forward stance. With a shout he kicked, letting his foot fly with such force he overbalanced and nearly fell. “That always happens,” he muttered.

“You’re just trying too hard,” Peter said. “You need to loosen up and relax.” He stood next to Billy, demonstrating. “You keep your back straight as you follow through. Snap your foot out and pull it back quick.”

“Okay,” Billy said, taking up a stance once again. Peter took up the same, nodding for Billy to bend his knee a little more. This time the kick was smooth, an almost perfect parallel to the one Peter let fly. Peter smiled broadly. “Perfect!”

Billy grinned, his freckled cheeks flushing proudly. “Hey, am I gonna get my belt back?”

“Do you need it?”

“What do you mean?”

Peter inclined his head a little. “Will having a colored belt change the way you train?”

“I-I guess not. I just . . . always thought of karate as wearing the uniform and having the belt, you know?”

Peter nodded. “That’s Mr. Radcliffe talking. My teaching is going to be very different. What’s really important, Billy, is not what’s around your waist or on your back, but what’s in here,” he tapped Billy’s forehead gently, “and here.” He placed his palm on Billy’s chest over his heart.

Billy smiled again, raising his fists as Peter took up position next to him.

Mike stood on the verandah, watching the blonds move in unison. Billy was already looser, more relaxed; Peter’s patience and kindness was already having its effect.

“So you’ve changed your mind?” Micky said, leaning on the railing next to Mike.

Mike shrugged. “I guess so. Doesn’t seem to be doin’ any harm—if anything it’s helpin’ him. Long as Billy don’t get tangled up in anythin’ serious I don’t see any problem with it.”

~~~~~

“Damn it!” Lawrence Radcliffe slammed the phone down, letting out a long string of curses.

“What’s the matter, sir?” Radcliffe looked up at the lanky student leaning on the wall. The student immediately straightened at the sight of his teacher’s withering glare.

“That Thompkins woman. I still can’t convince her to make Billy come back, and now she doesn’t want me calling anymore! She’s found a NEW teacher for him! And she won’t tell me who it is!”

“Why is it so important?” the student asked, sliding his thumbs into his brown belt. “I thought Billy was your worst student.”

“He was! But that isn’t the point! I’ve never lost a student in twenty years! And I’ll be damned if I’ll lose one now.”

“So, what’re you going to do?”

Radcliffe leaned back in his chair, staring at the trophies and plaques on the wall. Twenty years of teaching. He’d started two years after his stint in the Great War, quickly building up a reputation for being one of the best martial arts instructors around, combining strict military discipline with a form of combat that was admittedly becoming more and more outmoded in the midst of missiles, tanks, and rifles. But no matter how advanced the weaponry, in the actual real level of war, one would always and eventually meet one’s enemy face-to-face. And for that you had to know how to take out his eyeballs.

Of course, he didn’t dare tell that to the permed women in skirts and blouses who brought their sons—Radcliffe had never and would never teach any girls—to him so that he could make men out of them. No, no, for these clients vague talk of character-building was usually enough to put stars in their eyes and cash in his hands. In return he took the soft American youngsters who watched too much TV and ate too many TV dinners and dreamed about too much TV and turned them into finely-honed machines, feared by their peers and respected by everyone else.

Until Billy. The boy was hopeless—awkward, unbalanced, shy, and good for nothing. Always cowering and flinching, with the same look of simpering fear on his face. The only thing that had kept him from being tossed out was the reputation of his teacher; Radcliffe didn’t dare admit that there was a student he couldn’t teach. If there was one, there would be others, and if he lost one student . . . then more would follow, until he had none. This just wouldn’t do. “I still have the Thompkins boy’s address on file. You get a couple of the other boys together and follow him. Eventually he’ll lead me to his new teacher.”

Tue, 10 Aug 2004 18:51:44 GMT

Title: North Wind (working title; may change in future)
Authors: Mich and En
Rating: PG-13, I’d say
Warnings: violence, the usual stuff
Genre: Secrets and Lies
Note: This story isn’t quite done but it’s almost finished and it’s been so long since we posted any new S&L I figured it was way past due; also to defray any mistaken notions that the series has been discontinued. ;) (For anyone who might be new, all the prior stories and miscellanea is on my site: http://www.angelfire.com/mi4/listentotheband/secrets/index.html )

“Those who know it use it . . . those who scorn it die . . . ” Peter kept his nose buried in the battered copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead as he walked, falling further and further behind his bandmates.

“Hang on, guys. Let’s wait for Peter,” Mike said.

“Hey, how about this? ‘Those who know it use it, those who scorn it die, to sing that you can dig it is to make your soul to fly . . . ’” Peter paused for a moment, then said “‘To heaven.’”

“That’s an odd pause, Peter,” Mike said. “Which tune were you thinkin’ of puttin’ it with?”

“The piece I was working on this morning. I’m trying to get my guitar sounding as close to a sitar as I can.”

Mike nodded. He hadn’t told Peter how impressed he’d been that morning, coming down the stairs to the sight of Peter hunched over his guitar, fingers moving so fast they were blurred, a twisting, writhing melody with a heavy Eastern flavor streaming from the acoustic’s sound hole.

“Hey guys, lookit this place!” Micky said, drawing their attention to the large window behind them.

“Didn’t this place used to be a laundromat?” Peter asked, tucking the book into his back pocket.

“Yeah, it did. See, you can still see the outlines of the machines on the wall there.” Micky pointed. Sure enough, on the room’s walls were lines that ran parallel to the floor; above the paint was a pale bluish-green, under it was closer to aqua.

The machines had been replaced by a giant blue mat that stretched almost to the walls, leaving a narrow path of hardwood around it. The wall opposite the window, where advertisments for soap and the instructions for operating the washers had once hung, was now covered by an enormous sectioned floor-length mirror that gave the illusion that the room was twice as big as it was. Students in black uniforms moved in unison, their actions mirrored not only by each other, but by their own reflections.

Mike took a step back and peered up at the sign. “Lawrence Radcliffe’s Shaojinshi.”

“‘Shaojinshi’?” Peter said. “That’s just nonsense.”

“He probably picked it because it sounded nice,” Davy said, wrinkling his nose. “After all, who cares about what things mean as long as it’s assessically pleasing.”

“That’s aesthetically, Davy,” Mike corrected.

“That’s what I said!”

“Not only that, the syllables are Chinese, but they’re wearing gis, and the fighting style is Japanese. He has the wrong country entirely,” Peter said, a small smile creeping across his face.

Mike looked in the window. There were about thirty students, all boys, and all under the age of sixteen, it looked like. They stood in rigid formation, kicking in unison to the commands given by their sensei, a tall man with close-cropped red hair and a stern, square-jawed face. He barked out commands with enough volume that the Monkees heard him easily.

“He looks heavy into the discipline,” Micky said.

“Are we any different?” Peter said.

“Yeah, but we aren’t so . . . militant,” Micky said. “We’re rigid, but . . . not like that. Am I making any sense?”

“No, but that’s never stopped you before,” Davy said with a naughty grin.

Mike gave Davy a nudge. “I know what you’re trying to say, Mick. We’re rigid in the sense that we’re serious about the art, but not that we regard it as some kind of series of maneuvers to be memorized by rote, like this guy’s teachin’. Am *I* makin’ any sense?”

Peter nodded. “I don’t think I could have said it better myself, Mike.”

They watched as the boys switched legs, kicking with their right. At the front, a skinny boy with blond hair, his yellow belt a striking contrast to his black uniform, struggled to keep up; it was obvious that balancing on his left leg was something he hadn’t mastered. After ten or so repetitions his movements grew more and more awkward until he snapped his foot out too hard and overbalanced, falling backwards.

As one the boys stopped and drew back, leaving the blond alone in the center of the floor. The instructor stepped up and snapped some harsh words; immediately the boy sprang to his feet, wiping his sweaty palms on his gi.

“He’s being awful hard on the kid,” Mike mused as the instructor drew down into a fighting stance, barking out a few harsh instructions that the glass window muffled only partially. The boy looked plainly terrified as he snapped a front kick; the man caught it between his elbow and ribs and swept the boy’s other leg out from under him in a vicious sweeping kick. The boy hit the mat hard and rolled, clutching his elbow, his freckled face pinched. Instead of offering a hand or checking to see if he was okay, the instructor leaned over the boy and shouted at him, nudging him roughly with his foot.

Peter was the first to move, running to the door and lunging inside. Micky followed on his heels, with Davy and Mike following a few paces behind them.

The instructor looked up in surprise as they burst into the dojo. Peter made a beeline for the boy, whose face was red from the effort he was expending not to cry. “It’s okay,” he said, helping him sit up. “Does it hurt bad?”

“I’m okay,” the boy said. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Peter reached out, taking the limb in hand. “Stretch it out for me.”

Micky, meanwhile, was butting chests with the instructor, a snarl on his face. Mike hesitated, not at all eager to try and get between them; both of them looked ready to explode. He looked around at the students, half of whom were blinking owlishly at the intruders. The other half whispered to each other and pointed. There was no way of telling at whom their comments were directed—half the fingers pointed to the injured boy who was sitting up with Peter’s help, the other half were pointed at the Winds.

“What’s the big idea, picking on a little kid like that?” Micky growled. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“Like you, Skinny?” the man whose embroidered nametag identified him as “Sensei Radcliffe” sneered. He looked at Mike and Davy. “You guys have five seconds to get out of my dojo.”

“Not until we make sure he’s okay,” Peter said, his attention still focused on the boy. “My name’s Peter, by the way.”

“Billy,” the boy answered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m okay—it doesn’t hurt any more.”

Peter helped Billy stand up. “Just put some ice on it and don’t move it for a while. You’ll be okay.”

“He still has a lesson to complete,” Radcliffe said. “And fifty push-ups afterward.”

“Push-ups for what?” Mike said.

“Breaking formation.”

Davy’s face turned bright red. “He FELL!”

Radcliffe crossed his arms. “He wasn’t paying attention.”

Micky bounced on the balls of his feet, something he always did when he was angry or excited. “That’s a load of crap and you know it! You’re just getting kicks out of beating on a little kid!”

“All right, that’s enough! Out!” Radcliffe ordered, pointing to the door. “Before I call the police!”

Peter helped Billy to his feet, his eyes focused completely on the boy. “Come on, guys. We’ll escort Billy home.”

“No, please . . . it’ll only cause trouble,” Billy whispered.

“No one deserves to be treated like this,” Peter said, loud enough for everyone to hear. The students fell silent, several mouths forming o’s of shock.

“And just what makes you an expert, boy?” Radcliffe said. “These are my students and I’ll teach them however I see fit. Billy, get back in line. Now.”

Billy started to move, then hesitated. Peter’s hand still rested on his shoulder, but it was a supportive grip, not a restictive one. He bit his lip and remained still.

“Billy, here!” Radcliffe barked, pointing to his side as if summoning a dog. When Billy didn’t move he lunged forward, grabbing Peter’s arm and wrenching it away.

Peter whirled around, breaking the grip and falling into a graceful fighting stance. Micky pulled Billy out of the way as Peter and Radcliffe clashed, the larger man no match for the North Wind. As he watched it was obvious to Mike that Radcliffe had no sense of honor; he slashed at Peter with all he had, aiming for Peter’s face, throat, eyes, kidneys, groin, and the sides of his knees, all vulnerable spots on which a single hit could cause enormous damage. Peter stayed well clear of the man’s fists and feet, ducking and rolling and leaping out of the way until Radcliffe stopped, panting for breath and glaring daggers at Peter. He turned to Billy. “You. Take off the belt. You’re through.”

Billy’s lower lip trembled and for a moment it looked like he was going to cry. Mike knelt down and untied the belt, folding it carefully before he straightened, hurling it at Radcliffe. It struck the dark-clothed man between the eyes.

Once on the street, his untied shoelaces dragging behind him, Billy released the moan he’d been keeping in his chest. “What am I gonna do now? Mom’ll be so mad I got kicked out!”

“Tell her the truth,” Peter said. “That it was our fault.”

“And then we’ll tell her what that creep did to you,” Micky said.

That didn’t seem to console Billy much. “But what am I gonna do? Mom’s out shopping and I don’t have a key to our apartment.”

“Well, you can come home with us. You can hang out for a while and we’ll call your mom an’ explain,” Mike said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Billy said, giving them a cautious smile. “So who are you guys, anyway?”

After quickly shooting fingers, Davy gave the introduction. By the time he was done talking they were at the Pad. “Wow, you guys live here?” Billy asked, his eyes huge as he tried to take in the Pad’s interior and the beach beyond all at once.

“We sure do,” Micky said. “Welcome to the swinging bachelor life.” Mike’s elbow hit him in the ribs. “What’d I say?”

“Ixnay on the ingingsway achelorbay,” Mike muttered. “Billy, why don’t you have a seat an’ we’ll get some ice for that elbow.” As the boy went over to the kitchen table and sat Mike leaned over to Peter. “Get his phone number an’ give his mom a call. I really don’t want to have any more people pissed at us today.” Peter nodded.

After giving Peter his phone number, Billy held still while Mike placed an ice pack on his elbow. Peter picked up the phone and backed into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Because we need more fic.

Sun, 02 May 2004 10:46:43 GMT

Title: None yet
Author: Caroline
Rating: G
Genre: Unfinished Ghostbusters crossover

It was as if time itself had stopped within the confines of the pad. The four bodies which lay on the floor in a heap did just that. Lay on the floor in a heap. Davy had his ear pressed to the receiver of the telephone, but it was obvious he wasn’t listening to the person on the other end—you could hear her calling out to him.

Micky looked as if he’d seen a UFO land on the beach, and little green men file out, heading towards him. It was an odd mixture of horror and fascinated delight, which one would probably only ever see on his face.

If you had just walked in and saw Peter, you’d probably think he was deep in thought, hunched over his bass and staring intently at a sheet of unfinished music, totally oblivious to what was happening around him. You would be right.

With his mouth hanging open, mid-chew, Mike stared dumbfounded at the heap of bodies. He had no idea what to say, or what to do, so he just stood there, staring while the tomato from his sandwich slowly began to slide from its breaded covers.

A moan came from the heap of bodies and they began to stir. One of them sat up, rubbing his head.

“Egon. Why, is it, that every time I come into the lab, it blows up?”

“I don’t know, Peter.” The one called Egon sat up, feeling around for his glasses. “Maybe you’re cursed.”

“Maybe I’m cursed...” Peter mimicked in an annoyed tone. “Ray! What are you doing?”

“You could be cursed, you know.” Ray replied as he scanned his irate colleague with a PKE meter. A disappointed look graced Ray’s face. “You’re not getting any readings...”

“Of course I’m not getting any readings, Ray. I’m not cursed!”

“He is right, Raymond. There has been a high explosion rate when compared to the times Peter has come into the laboratory,” Egon found his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. “Although, it may have to do with the fact that every time he has arrived unexpected, he has startled me into making a misjudged calculation—“

“Hey guys?”

“Yes, Winston?”

“Where are we?”

“What do you mean ‘Where are we?’? Did you hit—“ Peter stopped and looked around. “Ok, so we’re not in the lab. Where are we, Egon?”

Ray gazed around the pad in wonder. “Wow! It looks like we’ve gone back in time! This is amazing!”

“Gone back in time? What are you, crazy? That’s impossible!”

“It does appear that Ray is correct...” Egon said.

The sound of someone clearing their throat caused the Ghostbusters to look up. Mike was still staring at them, but now he wasn’t mid-chew and the tomato had dropped to the floor. He looked perplexed. Egon stood and strode over to him, extending his hand.

“Doctor Egon Spengler. Ghostbuster.”

Mike shook his hand cautiously. “Mike Nesmith. Monkee.” He stared up at Egon, and his green wool hat started to slide off his head. He clamped his hand down on it before it fell. Egon was taller than Mike. About two inches taller, four inches if you included his hair.

“These are my colleagues,” Egon continued, gesturing with his long arm. “Doctor Raymond Stantz, Doctor Peter Venkman and Winston Zeddemore.”

Mike looked at them for a few moments. Unsure of what to say, he introduced each of his bandmates to the Ghostbusters.

Peter suddenly snapped out of his reverie and smiled warmly at the four guests who were all now standing. “I didn’t hear you come in. Are you friends with Mike?” He assumed, since Mike had introduced them.

“What? No...” Mike was still confused. “They just, kinda, I dunno, appeared...”

“I’m not sure exactly what happened yet,” Ray began to babble, “but I think we’ve inadvertently discovered a way to travel through time and space—“

“You mean like the TARDIS, in Dr Who?” Micky interrupted with wide eyes.

“Not exactly,” Egon replied. “The TARDIS is a very complicated piece of machinery, not to mention it was made on another planet. I’m afraid that our arrival was purely accidental.”

“Egon,” Venkman began, giving him a warning look. “By ‘purely accidental’, you mean ‘able to get back home’ don’t you.”

“Well...” Egon started.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Winston said looking at Ray.

“Maybe if we recreated the experiment exactly—“

“Wait a minute,” Mike interrupted Ray. “Recreate the experiment? I’m sure I heard someone say the word ‘explosion’ before.”

“Babbitt’ll have a fit!” Davy piped up, echoing Mike’s thought.

“Never mind Babbitt, whoever he may be, what about us?” Venkman exclaimed, turning his attention to Ray. “I’m not prepared to be blown to kingdom come again. Can’t you figure out a safe way of getting us home?”

“We could, but it’ll take time,” Egon started.

“And money.” Ray added.

“And resources,” Micky said bouncing up from his seat. “Hey, can I help you guys?”

Egon glanced at Ray, eyebrows raising in what could be read as disbelief. He saw his expression and answered before Ray could cause any damage.

“That won’t be necessary, unless of course you have specific scientific training in engineering or parapsychology.”

“I have a chemistry set,” Micky offered hopefully.

Venkman walked over to Micky and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you do, but this is big kid stuff.”

Micky’s expression turned indignant. “Don’t do that.”

Giving Egon a ‘can you believe this shit?’ look, Venkman took his hand off Micky’s shoulder and wandered around the pad.

----

Soon the opening of “Last Train to Clarksville” started to liven up the pad. Winston, Ray and Venkman listened, heads bobbing slightly to the music while Egon just watched a faint smile on his lips.

Suddenly, Ray was startled from his attention on the music to the sound of his PKE meter beeping in his pocket.

“Wow! Spengler! Get a load of these readings! We’ve got a strong presence here, Class Three at least, maybe Class Four.”

Egon glanced at his own PKE meter. “I’m not getting anything. It may have been damaged in the explosion,” he explained as he strode over to Ray. “This is interesting, Ray. It wasn’t picking up anything before, was it?”

Ray shook his head. “Nothing, not even residuals. I wonder why it’s perking up now? I hope it’s not broken...”

“Wow!” Micky, now distracted from his music bounded off the stage and over to Ray and Egon.

“Micky!”

“What is it? Can I see?” Micky said, all his attention on the PKE meter.

The beeping stopped Ray and Egon looked up at Micky.

Community

Wed, 10 Mar 2004 00:39:41 GMT

I come with tidings of great joy ---

--- or, uh, to pimp out the new community my friends I created today, fandomcollision.

What is fandomcollision?

fandomcollision is the most extraordinary western, comedy, love story, history, drama, musical, documentary, satire...

fandomcollision is a community created and maintained by starlightcheese, deludedvision & caitalynn22.

The purpose of fandomcollision is precisely what it sounds like:

The collisions (or, mushing, if you will) of various fandoms by way of --- well, any creative outlet you choose. Icons, fiction, parodies, random posts --- anything!

As fandomcollision grows, its interests will as well, but for the time being, the listed interests reflect those of the creators/maintainers and their friends.

Please, feel free to join & post!

(And tell your friends!)

[Cross-posted to quite a few places. I apologise in advance if I post this on a community that doesn't allow such posts. I also apologise in advance for all of you have to see it more than once.]

Hell, I'll bite

Sun, 22 Feb 2004 06:03:13 GMT

*goes to the clone machine*

Nev: Mich, why? Seriously, just answer me why?

Mich: There's a Ray and an Egon. It just wouldn't be right without having a—

Nev: But he's such a smartass!

Mich: And you aren't?

Nev: yeah, but, I mean, I'm not—

Mich: Nev, relax. I don't even think he'll hang around long enough to make an impression in the house, okay? *fires up the clone machine* Here we go . . . *finishes with a flourish as the door opens* And voila! (That's French.)

Venkman: *sticks his head out*

Mich: Hi there.

Venkman: *gives her a look* Hi.

Mich: You're a clone, and you're in the Long Title Library.

Venkman: Clone. Library. Right. Where am I, really? *looks at Nev* And what's with him? That haircut's about twenty years out of fashion, man.

Nev: *bristles* Now just a damn—

Mich: Egon can explain it. He's in town.

Venkman: Spengs is here?

Mich: In a manner of speaking, yes. Ray is, too.

Venkman: Winston?

Mich: Uhhh, not as such.

Venkman: *steps out* Whatever. Where do I go?

Mich: *points to the door* Out that door, down the path into town, follow the main road.

Venkman: *smacks Mich on the behind as he goes by* Thanks, babe.

Mich: O-kay . . . Nev, we better warn the town about him.

(Just figured posting here would warn people . . . *EG*)

I couldn't help myself...

Sun, 22 Feb 2004 03:53:30 GMT

I gave in to the calling of the clone machine... I had to get him...

Ray: Wow! I'm here! *looks around* Where am I?

You're at the Long_Title Library, Ray. You're a clone.

Ray: I'm a clone?! Wow! You actually have the technology to clone people now? This is amazing! *picks a PKE meter from his pocket and scans the area* Wow! This place is burning with paranormal activity! Wait till Egon sees this place!

Actually... Egon's already been here a while.

Ray: He has? Wow! We gotta meet up! *wanders off, scanning as he goes*

LT&G?

Sat, 21 Feb 2004 08:20:50 GMT

This is possibly the next bit in the giraffe story, but I'm not sure I'll make it offically part of the story. It's basically filler, and I'm not totally happy with it even as silly filler.

Where Lisa's place alternated between pristine neatness and utter chaos, Renee's apartment gave the impression of organization but not obsession. Her bookshelves were full but organized (Whereas in Lisa's library you were apt to find Greek philosophy, in the original Greek, of course, tucked between Isaac Asimov and Jane Austin.), blueprints and sketches interspersed with a number of oil paintings decorated the walls, and crates of mechanical bits and pieces were stacked against a wall. And while a tool or book could be found out of place, rarely was there a time when she couldn't find what she was looking for within a few minutes of wanting it. (Unlike her best friend who'd spend fifteen minutes searching for a pen she'd tucked behind her ear or maybe tossed across the room in a fit of inspiration or annoyance.) Currently, there were several yards of black and brownish-yellow fabric piled on the couch, and a number of somewhat eerie looking wire mesh sculptures, the product of a weeks worth of work, took up most of the space in the living room.

Renee nudged a piece out of the way and sat cross-legged next to the living room coffee table. She'd just begin to work on attaching the controls to the piece when her phone rang. After three rings worth of dragging it over to where she was sitting, she picked up the receiver with one hand while idly twirling a screwdriver in the other.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Babe."

At the sound of Micky's voice, Renee smiled and shifted the receiver to the crook of her shoulder. "Hey, darlin'. What's up?" She asked, returning part of her attention to the task in front of her.

"Boredom. Utter, absolute, crushing boredom." Micky answered in his most melodramatic voice.

"Rough to be you, Mick."

"Totally." Micky agreed in a more normal tone of voice. "You need to move closer."

"Mmm. So I can have an hour-long drive to campus everyday, too? No thanks."

"Well, you're obviously not a native Californian."

"Obviously."

Micky chuckled at Renee's intentional emphasis on her Southern drawl. "So, what're you doing?"

"Putting the brains in our little mechanical monster."

"Brains!" Micky crowed, followed by his best mad scientist maniacal laughter. "Brains, I love brains!"

"That last bit sounded more Dracula than Frankenstein, darlin'. Might wanna work on that. But, ya know, the maniacal laughter's getting better."

"Good. I still need minions, though. Will you be my minion?"

"Sorry, love, already taken."

"I know. That's really unfair. You are -my- girlfriend after all."

"Yeah, but Lisa's known me longer. Besides, she pays better."

Micky let out a long, despairing sigh. "It's just not fair, can't compete with the nobility."

"I know, it's just terribly unfair."

"I'm getting no love out of this conversation, Ren." Micky's voice went directly from teasing to a conspiratorial whisper with his next words. "Oh, I hear Pete coming, gotta go."

"Mic-" Renee gave the now dead receiver a baffled look. "He's nuts. I love him, but he's nuts." With that, she hung up the phone and returned to her work.

~*~

Micky did his best to look nonchalant as Peter walked in from the beach, and failed miserably. He whistled idly and leaned back on the stairs, "Heya, Pete."

Peter eyed his friend as he walked over to the stairs, glancing briefly down at the phone sitting next to the drummer. "Micky, what are you up to?"

"Up to?" Trying for innocent sincerity, he barely managed harmless guilt.

Peter fixed him with a surprisingly perceptive look. "You're a worse liar than I am, Micky."

"I am not!" At Peter's soft snort of disbelief, Micky sighed. "I can't tell. It's a secret."

"A secret, really?"

"Yeah, it's a surprise. You'll see. Stop pestering me!" The words progressively gained the panicked tone of one horrible at keeping secrets and trying desperately not to tell. Micky quickly stood from his perch and practically ran up the stairs. "I'm not telling and you can't make me!" With that announcement, he slammed the bedroom door behind him.

Davy came in from the beach just in time to hear Micky's last words and the slam of the door. "What was that all about?"

Peter frowned up at the door and shrugged. "Beat's me. He's up to something."

"Isn't he always?"

"Good point."

Work in progress

Fri, 13 Feb 2004 02:20:29 GMT

Title: None yet. Suggestions welcome.
Author: Caroline
Rating: M for Mature Audiences. It contains medium level course language.
Archive: On my site

The dimly lit corridor glowed eerily in the moonlight, casting ghost-like shadows on the walls opposite the windows. Silence echoed loudly in the ears of the three musicians as they crept towards a door at the end of the hallway. The shortest of the trio stopped and reached out for the handle and turned it slowly. He pushed firmly, but the door was locked. He looked over his shoulder at the two behind him. The one with light brown hair shrugged a little and turned to look at the tall man with the wool hat.

Sighing quietly with some annoyance, he moved up to the door and stooped down to inspect the lock. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he produced two thin pieces of wire. Slowly he carefully inserted them into the lock and manipulated them until he heard a metallic click. With a satisfied grin, he opened the door and put the wires back in his pocket.

The room was dark, which turned into pitch black when the door was closed behind them. A flashlight created light enough to distinguish the layout and detail of the whole area.

“This isn’t it. He’s not here.”

“He’s got to be. We probably missed some... corridor, or something...”

“Mike,” Davy said watching him dart around the room with the flashlight. “Peter’s right. He’s not here.”

“He’s got to be,” Mike replied through gritted teeth as he searched for a hidden passageway. “I didn’t come all this damn way to find ANOTHER dead end.”

Peter flinched slightly. “We’ll find him. Maybe... Maybe this isn’t the right place...”

“Not the right place? Jesus Peter! How many other Jack Frost Institutes are there in Arizona?” Mike picked up a book and threw it across the room.

“You don’t need to yell at me, Michael.” Peter gazed at him crossly. “We all want Micky back, and losing your temper won’t make it happen any faster.” He pushed past Davy and stalked out of the room.

“He’s right, you need to calm down.” Davy glanced down the corridor, watching Peter.

“Fuck it Davy! I’ve been calm for two damn months!” With almost no effort, Mike flipped the desk in the middle of the room over, crushing the things which were on top.

“Mike cool it,” Davy said. “Someone’s gonna hear us...”

He kicked a slightly damaged lamp into the wall opposite him, making it smash to pieces. Tightening his left hand into a fist and relaxing it several times, he stared at the broken lamp for several seconds. Then, without a word he left the room. Davy sighed and turned to follow him out.

He was standing in the doorway, unmoving. Davy frowned.

“Mike? What’s wrong?”

Mike raised his hand, indicating silence. Davy peered around him, his eyes widening in alarm.

“Oh no.”

Lions and Tigers and... Giraffes?

Wed, 28 Jan 2004 08:12:50 GMT

I started working on this again, this part's not finished, but I thought I'd share what I've got so far, I'll post the finished version to the list. The first two bits are messages 19706 & 19719 in the LT archives, I'd link them but I'm pretty sure you have to be logged in to Yahoo! groups so...

Oh, and to be on the safe side, warning for possible spewing of food/drink on your keyboard/monitor. :)

Renee flipped through the 'g' section of the card catalogue until she came to what she was looking for. "Children's, children's, promising," she muttered, scanning the few cards with the topic of giraffe.

Micky peered over the top of her head at the cards. "Why exactly are we at the library? I know what a giraffe looks like."

Renee tilted her head back so that she was looking upside down at the drummer. "Do you? Can you draw me one? An accurate one that you could build something off of?"

After thinking about that for a moment, Micky shook his head. "Good point, I guess. Seems like a lot of work though, just to pull something on Lisa."

Renee chuckled and turned her attention back to the cards. "Really. You think a good prank can be pulled out of thin air, just like that, huh?" She made a slight tsking sound. "Proper planning my dear Micky. Proper planning makes sure it works like it's supposed to and you don't get busted for breaking and entering while setting it up. You only make that mistake once, trust me."

"Breaking and entering?"

"You do recall the little escapade at the Cassandra, right? That was breaking and entering. Fortunately, MIT security's pretty lenient and I swear Lisa could be a professional cat burglar if she wanted to." She finished looking through the cards and picked her bag up. "C'mon, let's go see what we can find out."

At mid-day, the library was nearly empty and the pair only passed two or three people on their way through the stacks. When they reached the animal section, Renee grinned mischievously. "Bet this is a popular make-out spot."

Micky frowned in mild confusion. "What?"

Renee gestured to the secluded area, "Good make-out spot. C'mon, don't tell me you never made-out with a girl in the stacks when you were in high school."

"I don't even think I knew where my high school library was."

"Missing out, Mick. Missing out."

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Micky nuzzled at Renee's neck. "Really? Well, I suppose we could fix that, now couldn't we?"

Soft laughter met the question as Renee turned around to face him. "You're terrible," she said, pushing him back with a playful hand to his chest. "Besides," she added with an arch smile, "the biology section at Caltech's library is much nicer. It has chairs."

So... awards?

Mon, 19 Jan 2004 21:02:41 GMT

When does the rest of the world get to find out who won what at the Monkees Fanfic Awards?

I know Cin, Caroline, Mich, En, and I won a couple of awards, but I want a nice list telling me who won what. You know, since I wasn't there and all.

I'd also like a banner. A big-ass banner declaring me the bestest comedy writer EVAH. It should be wallpaper size so I can put it on all the computers at school. And people will look at it and wonder...

"Who the hell is Dawn?"

very kewl :)

Mon, 19 Jan 2004 04:41:18 GMT

This is a great idea! Looking forward to the new digs. Hmmm, wonder where those bad clone boys of mine are? :)

And the monkee icons are neat-o! Where did y'all find them, or did ya make 'em yourselves?

Deidre