Witch, Vampire, Country Singer (Part 3)
Category: Writing and Poetry

Soft rustling was the only warning Willow had before the minion pounced, knocking her to the rough gravel that lined the floor of the tunnel.  Fortunately the tunnel marked by the hastily scratched railroad spike was an access tunnel designed to be used for maintenance of the actual sewers so she was not forced to contend with the slimy, excrement laced water that trickled down the center of many of the other tunnels.

The breath was driven from her lungs as the minion landed heavily on top of her, his claws digging into the tender skin of her neck.  Willow struggled to pull air into her lungs so she could gasp out the words that would deliver her to His presence before the minion could sink  fangs into her veins.  His foul, old-blood smelling breath was hot on the pulse point on her neck and she could just feel the tiniest pinprick as his fangs brushed her skin.

"Lucky for me you were walking along…not so lucky for you.  Are you scared? Please be scared, I love how you smell when you are afraid." The minion leered at her, his rasping voice echoing in the empty tunnel.  He leaned forward and placed his nose next to her skin drawing in the sweet scent of her terror. As soon as her scent reached his nostrils he threw himself away from her, his claws leaving long bloody furrows along her neck and collarbone.  The yellow bled from his eyes and his ridges receded as he crouched against the side of the tunnel.

Willow struggled to her feet using the side of the tunnel for support. "Take me to him." She commanded, hoping the fear she was feeling was not obvious to the vampire cringing on the floor across from her.  Inwardly she was trembling, this was the closest she had been to a vampire in years, she had forgotten how swift and silent they could be.  All she could think was to be glad that the claim from a master vampire lingered.  The minion rose to his feet slowly staring at the claw marks on the side of her neck.  He slowly shook his head and his ridges once again pushed forward, as his eyes glowed an eerie yellow in the dark.

"Can't. Spilled your blood, he'll spill mine." He started towards Willow with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "but, if I eat you, sweet little one, and put your body in the park, he'll never know…" He lunged for her once again; while he had been speaking Willow had been struggling to recall one of her former spells.  As the minion grabbed for her, she dropped to the floor and muttered the spell under her breath.  Brilliant light flashed through the tunnel blinding both vampire and witch; Willow heard the howl from the vampire followed by the soft "poof" which heralded a vampire's reduction to dust. 

Once again she staggered to her feet, leaning against the tunnel wall and blinking tears from her light dazzled eyes.  There would be no cautious approach of the lair now, although her spell would not have reached far into the tunnel the dusting of the minion as well as his howl of rage would certainly be noted.  Investigators would be sent and she needed to be ready to meet them.  Willow forced herself to move away from the wall of the tunnel and to stand, feet firmly planted, one leg slightly in front of the other with her hip cocked suggestively to the side. 

She quickly ran hands over the leather of the dress to dislodge any dirt or gravel that had attached itself to her during her recent struggle.  She shook her head to settle the braids correctly so the long tail lay over her shoulder following the natural curve of her neck; the tail of the braid lay directly over one bloody furrow carved by the minion's claws which was slowly seeping blood.  The effect was it appeared that her hair was trickling blood down over her leather clad breast; she reached a hand up with the intention of performing a minor healing chant to close the wound but reconsidered.  She let her hands drop to her sides as she considered that he would probably enjoy that effect. A small smirk lifted one corner of her mouth briefly:

"Why do I always have to dress in things that make me look like I'm bleeding?"

"Do you want to know the alternative?"

"Ye-No."

"Smart girl."

After a while she had gotten used to wearing predominantly red and black; colors which, until this evening, had been absent from her wardrobe for eight long years.

The scrape of feet coming towards her location jerked her from her memories and warned her that she was about to have guests.  She sighed, straightened her shoulders and placed her hands behind her back, lacing her fingers together and squeezing tightly to still the trembling that had invaded her limbs. 

The vampire rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of a woman, dressed like a master's pet, standing submissively in the middle of the tunnel. A low chuckle sounded in the darkness, and then the footsteps continued towards Willow.  Once the vampire was close enough for Willow to make out his face her trembling increased.  This was not just a minion; this was a trusted one, one that was sent out on the master's orders with the master's confidence.

"Clint." Willow's whisper sounded like a shout through the tension that enveloped the two beings inside the tunnel.

"Lady Red," his whisper mocked her "the Master will be glad to see you."

Willow forced her knees to lock and her spine to stiffen when in reality she wanted to slump to the floor of the sewer.  One of the last vampires she had wanted to meet up with now stood in front of her.  The claim that had been placed on her so many years ago wouldn't protect her from this one.  He knew of the claim, knew the limits and knew how to get around them.  Depending on his mood he could drain her and claim it was justice for her betrayal; he may spend a night or two being flogged but in the end would drink from his master's blood if no orders had been directly given to the contrary.

Clint cocked his head and appeared lost in thought. He let his ridges drop and his eyes return to their mortal shade of green.  He was a handsome bloke when he wore his human face and often his prey didn't even realize what he was until after his fangs had pierced their throats.  He was one of very few vampires Willow had ever seen who could drop their fangs and drink without switching to the face of the demon.

"Come then; we wouldn't want to keep him waiting." Clint offered Willow his arm and a sardonic smile.  Willow forced her trembling body to step forward.  She placed her hand lightly on the crook of his arm and gestured grandly down the tunnel. "Let us go to him."

As they walked, vampire and witch, arm in arm, Willow was once again transported to the past in her memories.  The trek through the dark an ironic echo of the first "date" she and her master had shared.

                                                ~~

"Come now, pet, you didn't think I would go to a ball in tee shirt and jeans now did you?" The smirk on his face was enough to snap Willow out of her stare.

"I did not know you owed anything else."

"Well I clean up good I do." And he was right.  Half-tails, pearly white shirt, blood red vest and bow-tie, all he was missing was the top hat.  Even his black boots were gone, replaced with patent leather dancing shoes that gleamed. "My lady." He bowed and offered his arm.

"Sir." Willow dropped into the graceful curtsey Clint had spent three days teaching to her, lifting her green velvet skirts ever so slightly to reveal the black dancing heels she wore.  Still holding the skirts with one hand she lay the other, clad in a white calf skin glove, on his arm and stepped from the door way.

"Your chariot awaits." He gestured grandly and Willow's silvery laugh echoed down the street when she saw the same distributable and decaying black DeSoto parked at her front gate.

~~

They had gone dancing, he dressed in a tux and she in a green velvet dress.  He had tugged at his tie all evening and run his hands over the silk stocking she wore beneath the dress with promise in his eyes.  Who would have thought the scourge of Europe knew how to waltz? Eventually the dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor with the shredded remains of her stockings strewn around the room along with the buttons from his shirt; they never did find his tie.

Willow's steps faltered slightly as she tripped over the gravel which began to replace the hard cement of the tunnel floor.  Clint sneered at her and clamped a hand over the one resting on his arm. "No running off now, Lady." Willow glared at him and forced her legs to move just a little faster as if eager to get to their destination. She noted that she was beginning to squint as light began to flicker into the tunnel; she dismissed the night vision spell with a toss of her head.

Clint released her hand as they stepped out of the tunnel into a torch lit atrium similar to the one Willow had originally dropped down into. Clint stood with his hands at his sides watching as Willow took in the tunnels that ran away from the hub. She glanced at his out of the corner of her eyes when she spied the tunnel marked with the silver spike.  He pointed "Go on then, private chambers, no one enters unless they want to see the dawn but of course you would have a standing invitation." He sneered at her again. 

Willow nodded slightly, he was sending her to her death; intruding on a master vampire in his private quarters was unwise at the least and commonly fatal, if she emerged from the chambers still alive (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) it would be known that he had accepted her under his protection again.  Long before that her presence would be known either through Clint's retelling of her arrival or more likely the sound of her screams echoing hollowly through the tunnels claimed by those minions who had flocked to this master's call.

Her head held high, shoulders straight (He appreciated a show of strength she reminded herself) she walked on shaky legs to the entrance.  A low growl rumbled forth from within.  She heard Clint's snicker from behind her and knew he had caught the scent of the sudden flash of fear which had overcome her momentarily; from the increased tone of the growl she knew the inhabitant had caught the same scent.  She closed her eyes and centered herself, this was her fate, her choice and she would face it without fear.  On rock steady legs she stepped over the lip of the tunnel into the waiting arms and fangs of the master within.

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A Witch, A Vampire and A Country Singer Take Two
Current mood: creative
Category: Writing and Poetry

I started NANO this morning and found that I started writing more of the Willow/Spike fanfic that I posted here in an earlier blog...so here is some more of it.

~

A hundred miles away in Los Angles the dark haired seer dropped to the floor clutching her head as a vision exploded behind her eyes.  Her wordless cry of pain sent the one time Scourge of Europe to the medicine cabinet for ice packs and Advil.  Over the years Cordelia had come to understand the workings of her visions and was usually able to stave off the worst of the pain and spontaneity by meditating for several hours during the day; once in the trance like state she achieved the visions were able to flow freely through her without causing undo pain and stress.  However the mediation only assisted with easing the flow of visions that were more than a few hours into the future – events that unfolded slowly over time and which would take time and planning to foil.  Sudden events, the rape of a girl on the corner by a demon who had moments before been jabbed with a hypodermic needle for example, would still flash into her mind with no warning.  Either the powers that be had heeded her numerous complaints, the meditation had helped to train her synapses to deal with the incoming visions or she had simply developed a higher pain tolerance but even the sudden visions no longer caused her the head splitting pain they once had.  She was now able to cope with the liberal use of Advil and ice packs.

"Delia." Angel touched her shoulder and offered the ice pack which she accepted with a small grimace.

"Thanks." Holding the ice pack to her temple she accepted the hand Angel extended and levered herself off the floor.  She stumbled the few feet to the couch and collapsed, reaching blindly for the pills and water Angel extended to her. "We need to go to Sunnydale."

Angel nearly dropped the water; he had never expected to hear that summons again.  Once the hellmouth had been closed and the slayer had relocated the demon community (vampires included) had lost interest in the small town.  The streets were so safe that young children could once again play until after dusk in any of the city parks and then walk the two or three blocks home without ever worrying about what might be watching and waiting for them.  Added to that there was a powerful witch in residence, the very one who had closed the mouth of hell; should anything be brewing the summons should have come from her first.

"Willow?" Angel guided the seer's hand to the glass he still held. She opened one tear filled eye, caught his stare then dropped her gaze to the floor.

"There was thunder" Angel cringed remembering the little witch's overwhelming fear of the loud crashes, the only fear she had with the exception of frogs. "Oz was yelling, there was a gunshot" Delia still refused to look at her boss and friend "Then there was darkness and…" She trailed off staring at the floor.

"And?" Angel rested a fist under his employee's chin and forced her head up until she was once again looking into his eyes.  She sighed and closed her eyes, two teardrops running down her cheeks.

"blood, running down her back.  She's on the floor and he's standing over her with a whip…" Her words were cut off by the growl the erupted from the souled vampire as he turned and viciously knocked a lamp across the room.

"Damn werewolf, never should have trusted him, need to find some silver, get in the car…"

"No Angel, not Oz…it's Spike." Delia's whisper shouldn't have been heard over the ranting as Angel stalked across the room and began rummaging in the weapons locker looking for his favorite silver sword.  Sudden silence from that corner of the room indicated that her words had been heeded. 

The ice pack flew from her hand and her headache took on blinding force as Cordelia found herself pinned to the couch with Angel's hand around her neck. "What about my childe?!" Delia whimpered as she struggled under Angel's grip and stared into his yellow eyes. "Spike's the one hurting Willow."

The yellow bled from Angel's eyes leaving them once again the deep chocolate brown that Buffy had found herself drowning in more than once. His fangs receded and his ridges smoothed as a resigned expression settled onto his face.  He released Cordelia from his grasp and slumped onto the couch next to her absently smoothing her hair and rubbing her temples to help ease the pain. He sighed. "She's gone back."

Cordelia nodded and curled tightly against her boss's side. "Something went wrong."

~~

Willow crouched, knees pressed to the floor of the tunnel, her butt resting on her heels as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the subterranean "highway".  A moment later she rolled her eyes as she realized that with the storm and the natural gloom of the tunnels whether her eyes adjusted was irrelevant, she was never going to be able to see well enough to locate her objective.  She strained to remember the relatively simple spell that would give her night vision while looking over her shoulder; she felt guilty for breaking the rules.  She frowned, her brow furrowing in thought, when had it become a rule that she couldn't use magic? Oz had hated her "dependence" on magic saying that she never did anything the normal way, she always relied on magic to fix things.  He was the one who had convinced her that just as he controlled the wolf she needed to control the magic that ran in her blood.  Because she loved him, because he was all that was left in this town she agreed to stop.

As she rested, shivering from shock, wet and cold, she began to realize that Oz had banned her magic because it made her powerful and he needed to be the one in control.  But now Oz was gone, dead or not dead and waiting to return to her.  She shuddered thinking about how he would punish her.  He'd never lay a hand on her.  He would just look at her with disappointment in his eyes and say "I expected more from you." Willow frowned again realizing that Oz had been using her childhood guilt of never being good enough for her parents to love her against her in their marriage. Just how long had she been controlled that way?  She shook off the thoughts and concentrated on weaving her first spell in ____ years.

As the whispered words spun into the air her vision sharpened and she discovered that she was in a central hub of the sewers.  There were tunnels leading in every direction.  She stood, brushing her hands along the dress to making sure there that any dirt that may have gotten on the leather was brushed away before she proceeded.   Perfection was the key to regaining his protection, perfection and ignoring the past eight years, pretending that betrayal, blood and hate lay between then and now.  She hesitated slightly, what if he wasn't willing to overlook the past and focus on what she offered? She stood still for a minute as scenes of blood and torture rushed through her mind.  Finally she shrugged and moved forward, it was no less than she deserved if that was what he chose to give.  She would accept it.

Willow paused before a trio of tunnels all headed in the general direction of the hospital.  They looked the same to her enhanced vision, characteristics shadowed by the odd green tint her spell lent her vision. He used to keep his lair in the old Crawford Mansion until Dawn had burned it the night of her turning. Willow flinched as the memories of that fateful night played in her mind…

~~

 INSERT DESCRIPTION OF EVENT HERE

~~

Willow sighed and shook herself out of memory lane, there would be time enough for reminiscing later, probably while she waiting, chained to something.  She shuddered again not with fear but anticipation.  She squinted at the edges of the tunnel and was able to locate a small mark at the entrance to the one that appeared to lead directly under the hospital.  Without hesitating this time she started forward eager to meet her future and reclaim her past.

10:56 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

1,734 words on perfection
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

I had a grand plan to write one thousand six hundred sixty seven words on a single topic; of course once I made that statement my brain instantly dried up and has refused to cooperate by not providing ANY topics at all.

That's not fair actually; I have lots of topics that I COULD write about but none that I WANT to write about for over a thousand words. In fact I think that's the crux of my lifelong dilemma regarding writing. I always had stories in my head that were interesting but when I went to write them down I would get impatient with how long it took to get them onto paper or I would get discouraged when I couldn't get the whole thing down at once.  Sometimes I would get the first paragraph and then something that might belong in the middle and a bit of the end but nothing flowing and cohesive. I felt the need to be perfect in what I wrote.  Nothing could sound trite or tired, things had to rationally flow from one scene to the next and conversations had to be clear and concise.

Obviously this is a damaging misconception. Of course it is alright to scribble down the fist line of an epic story and then write out the last paragraph without any knowledge of what is going to happen in between.  J.K Rowling has stated that she wrote the ending to Harry Potter before she wrote the first book and now that she has written the back story she is being forced to change her original concept because events developed in ways she did not expect. I think this is an extremely healthy attitude towards writing. She knew where her character was going to end up but she had to build the story that would get him there.

It would be interesting to use that concept as a writing exercise at some point: write the ending of a story – now write the story that will get your characters to that end.

Because of my need for perfection when writing I have snippets of stories and poems, random conversations and character studies that have been simply gathering dust in my "writing drawer" until such time as the rest of the story springs fully formed from my imagination.  This is a real problem and it has to stop. If I am serious about writing a publishable something (which I am) than the main thing is going to be completing that something.    I need to accept that I will write down a scene that I think goes with my story only to discover that in fact it belongs with one of those conversations hidden in the "writing drawer", I also need to allow myself to write the description of two events that belong in the same story and have NO IDEA how they will join together.  I must allow myself to be imperfect.

This concept of being perfect isn't confined to writing. Early in life I was exposed to a harsh reality: in order to win or be worthy of my father's love I had to be perfect in his eyes.  Not that he was a cruel man but in his mind perception is reality.  If someone outside the family perceived that I wasn't dressed appropriately than it was a reflection on my father's inability to teach me propriety.  It's a twisted manner of thinking that really poisoned the positive relationship I had with my father.  When I was very young I was Daddy's little girl.  He taught me to read at age 3, to ski at age 4 and told me stories every night before I went to bed.  He had wonderful stories. Every night he would tell me a story about what he found in the trunk of his car when he got to work that day.  Sometimes it was a strange piece of furniture or piece of clothing; one story that I remember clearly is the one where he found an alligator in his trunk and had to drive it to the zoo before he went to work because it had gotten lost.

He was proud of how quickly I learned things and I knew that he was proud of me.  Looking back I realize that he would make me practice a particular skill until I could do it flawlessly; he made flashcards for sight words and he would sigh when I got one wrong, only after I could recognize all of them did he hug me and tell me I did a good job.  So even then he was training me to never except being anything less than perfect.

Once I began school things began to change. Ever heard the saying "too smart for your own good"? That was me. I knew how to read so kindergarten bored me; while other children where learning that A is for apple I was looking around for other things to do.  Of course I got the reputation for being off task and troublesome.  My father was humiliated by this behavior and I began to lose his approval. 

As I grew older my behavior was often contrary to what he thought was appropriate and he continued to disapprove.  I grew to believe that he disapproved of me, a perception which was reinforced with his constant complaints regarding my behavior or actions.  I am adopted and he once went so far as to point out that he was grateful that he didn't share genetic material with me and it must be my genetics that caused me to be so inappropriate and imperfect.   Another time he accused me of making him physically ill due to my continued inappropriate actions.

Needless to say my quest to regain my father's love was all about being perfect.  In retaliation I was often imperfect: chose to marry a man who was completely contrary to my father's perception of perfection, didn't go into the field one would expect considering my education/college degree or housekeeping in a manner very different from what he would expect.  But for whatever reason I continued to try and be perfect when I wrote; probably because I wanted approval in that area of my life more than any other.

As is to be expected my need for outside approval is huge and the one thing that I shared with people in general was and is my writing – therefore in order to gain the approval of the masses I must present perfect prose.  As twisted and damaging as that thinking is it's also probably a very accurate assessment of why I feel the need to be perfect when I write.  Even now as I write this I am wondering what people who read it will say, what they will think about me and how will they comment/react to this posting.

I really see the NANO challenge not only as a mental challenge but also as an emotional challenge.  In order to meet the required word count I can not afford to be perfect, I must simply write.  I will have to confront my fear of creating scenes, conversations, descriptions and characters that have no "place" yet; I don't have to know where those snippets will be used or even if they ever will I just need to get them out onto paper.

On a side note for those of you who might wonder the relationship with my father has improved somewhat over the last several years.  The real wake-up call for me came when I noticed that my father was beginning to tell stories to my daughter, stories similar to the ones he used to tell me.  I thought it was sweet and enjoyed the bond that was created between them.   Then, when she turned three and was headed to pre-school, he pulled out flashcards and began teaching her the alphabet; warning bells went off in my head.  However I refused to project my childhood traumas onto my daughter so I remained silent.  Rebecca started school last year and my father began asking questions about her classroom behavior and quizzing the teacher on her progress in math and reading.  My daughter began to whine when I suggested spending time with her grandfather.  I finally witnessed my father sighing and "tsk"ing while going over the flashcards with my obviously reluctant daughter.  That was when I realized it wasn't just me that had to be perfect.

My entire life I had believed that my father only expected perfection from me because I was his child, a reflection on him and of him.  After seeing his interactions with my child and hearing stories from his former secretary I began to see that it isn't just me; my father appears to believe that the appropriate way to express love and affection for children is to mold them into "perfect" children.  He did this with me, he did this with the students in his school and now he is attempting to do it with my daughter.  Once I realized that it wasn't just me personally that caused him distress I was able to relax around him and accept him showing his love the only way he know how.

Now I let his "suggestions" regarding my weight, marital status, child rearing skills etc. simply pass over me or I turn the subject onto something we can debate in a civil manner.  I have cautioned my daughter to share only the positive educational experiences with her grandfather and I keep a tight rein on his involvement with her education.  She has returned to enjoying the time she spends with her grandfather knowing that she will get a reward when she tells him she scored a hundred percent on a spelling test; she waits and tells me that she only (sarcasm here) got eighty percent on the math test given the same day.

Imperfection is a beautiful thing; not being perfect allows us to conquer areas that we would otherwise be afraid to explore and allows us to take the bridles off our imaginations.  In the last year I have found peace with my relationship with my father, "unbridled" myself from a destructive and possessive marriage and opened myself to the little joys to be found in acting "imperfect" (a little loud, a little silly, a lot irreverent); now it is time to unbridle my imagination as well.

YAY! 1,734 words! And it was all on one topic, well two topics really but they were most definitely interconnected.  WOO-HOO.

11:55 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Two Thousand Words
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

I want to see what 1,667 words looks like when on a computer screen, this way I will have a better idea of what I need to write per day come November when I start writing the NANO challenge of 50,000 words in 30 days which breaks down to roughly 1,667 per day, of course you have to expect that there will be days that you will write more than that and days where you will sit staring at a blank screen trying to formulate enough thoughts to get even five words on the page.  Of course there are tricks you can use to accomplish this goal: for example write out numbers, instead of saying 50,000 say fifty thousand or one thousand six hundred sixty seven is even better.  So far the word count on here is one hundred thirty seven which is about the amount you would have to write per hour to complete one thousand six hundred sixty seven words in sixteen hours, I decided on sixteen hours since that is the amount of time one generally spends awake each day, again of course this will vary dependant on the day. 

Do you have to have a plot? I don't think so. I think you could spend the whole month writing about nothing, which is exactly what I may do or simply record conversations, observations, shopping lists instead of insisting on coherence to what you record. As this is the first year that I have participated in this challenge I am not going to limit myself to staying within a plot or with a certain set of characters, instead I am simply going to write whatever I need to in order to meet my word count for the day.  If that happens to include a plot or a set of characters than that is wonderful but it won't be necessary. Next year if I decide to do this again (if I survive the first experience) than I will worry about staying strictly within a set of guidelines regarding a plot and set of characters.  I suppose I could do that even now as long as I had a framework of a story and a few characters, could do character sketches and outlines, maybe individual scenes and conversations. There are now three hundred eighty three words on this page.

People who have read my blog appear to be very interested in hearing more about two stories that I wrote: the one about Willow/Spike called Thunder Rolls and the one generated from a first memory taken from a website and used as a challenge to myself to create a short story over a weekend. Either of these short pieces could be the start to something even greater.  As much as I would like to expand the piece using willow and spike I am afraid that if I do this I will simply be "stealing" already developed characters; admittedly this would be taking place long after the Buffy the vampire series ended and several of the events that take place in that series would no longer apply; for example Spike would never have regained his soul, he would have been chipped however he would have come to care about the members of the scoobies simply through proximity and actually getting to know his enemies and seeing them as complex creatures rather than simply "the slayer", "a witch" etc.  However I would not be creating entirely new characters.

Although I suppose it could be argued that there are no truly original characters anymore, every character could be seen as based on or similar to another character. Unless one refused to read anything from any other author they would never be completely free from the taint of others works.  You may quote a line here or mention a character there or use a snippet of dialogue unknowingly, simply thinking that you created it out of whole cloth when in fact that tidbit stuck in your head from when you read a book in college or high school or when you were reading to your children. Is it plagiarism when it isn't done intentionally or is a sincere compliment that your work made such an impression on another person that it remained in their subconscious for so long only to be resurrected when they were struggling to create or join to events together?  Obviously direct plagiarism is frowned upon as it well should be but is unintentional plagiarism a real crime? There are now seven hundred fifty one words on this page.

I started writing at one fifteen this afternoon when I got back from lunch and I have already been interrupted once to determine why a product was scheduling out to January of next year when in fact we have all the components available now.  That means that I have been writing almost continuously for about twenty minutes and I am a little less than half way to my word count goal. At this rate you should be able to complete the word requirements in about an hour and fifteen minutes as long as you wrote continuously which of course will not happen, especially if you are trying to stick to a plot or a set of guidelines.  I have simply let my mind wander and allowed my fingers to follow while doing this experiment.  There is no cohesiveness here nor is there an intention to provide that. Perhaps tomorrow I will explore how hard it would be to write the necessary one thousand six hundred sixty seven words while sticking to one topic. I am suddenly reminded of college term papers that had to be twenty pages long or some such nonsense, it was either a struggle to find enough different concepts and evidence to explore that would take up twenty pages typed in times new roman twelve point font or it was hard to compress so many different concepts to that twenty pages, I was often marked down for expressing too many viewpoints and not exploring each as fully as I ought to during that time. There are now one thousand ninety one words on this page and I have been interrupted for the second time to provide a fed-ex online label for one of our human resource managers.  I have now been writing almost continuously for thirty minutes.

And I have hit a roadblock. I stopped again to answer a consumer email and now I don't really have anything else to say or write about. Dammit I am writing stream of consciousness and it just ran dry on me! I will take another break and create the fed-ex label for the package that needs to go overnight today…

Okay I took about a half hour break and now I am back to writing, it is currently two nineteen in the afternoon.  I still don't have anything else to write about, how sad.

Okay, I will start listing the things on my desk: I have a horseshoe shaped desk and on the outmost left hand side there is a metal three tiered basket for my in mail (top level) used labels and information I need "at my fingertips" on the second tier and on the bottom is a huge stack of address labels which my co-worker and I use throughout the day.  Hanging next to the basket is a metal three tier hanging system for folders.  The top folder is used by the sales team to drop off letters and information to be mailed out to customers, the second folder is for merchandise claims which need to be filed with fed-ex and UPS, currently empty. The bottom slot isn't occupied by a folder but instead holds several preprinted envelopes which are used in conjunction with the mailing labels to send the information contained in the top folder. What a nice little closed loop system that is.

Next to the metal tray and below the hanging folders is a Staples "easy" button which everyone feels the need to press when they stop by my desk. Next to that is my day planner which is opened to the current month.  Above the day planner, hanging next to the folder system is a list of the United States area codes for the telephone, very necessary when determining where people are calling from.  Above that list is a second list which has answers for frequently asked questions regarding the size and wattage of available fixtures and how to determine which size/wattage will be best suited for a location. Next to the day planner there is a bottle of body lotion, Bath and Body Works cherry blossom, which is about three quarters empty; I use this about three times a day as my hands dry out from continued exposure to warm papers coming off the printer. Next to the bottle is my telephone, my life line with the outside world.  Above the phone next to the list of FAQs is a phone directory for my company; I have highlighted the numbers I call most frequently and added the number for the local post office to the list. Interesting note here: the California poison control center's phone number is similar to our customer sales 1-800 number; in fact it is one number different so we actually have the poison control number listed in bold face on our directory as we do sometimes get frantic calls from Californians who are experiencing some sort of poison crisis.

Hanging next to the directory is a list of "what customers hate most" regarding customer service. Next to the phone on the desk are two boxes of tea: tension tamer and black cherry berry both made by celestial seasonings.  There is a green stone jar slightly in front of the tea right above the left hand corner of my keyboard which I use to store spare change for the vending machines. Arranged along the top edge of my keyboard between it and my computer monitor is a small marble desk clock which is engraved with "Hubbardton Forge" and our logo, "2006 Sales Team" and my name, a box of binder clips from Staples, a pocket reference book for CPR, a "inflate shield" from Laerdal for CPR and a wooden ruler.

My computer monitor is on a stand directly in front of me, on the stand are also 2 white out strip dispensers, a pen, paperclips, a rubber fingertip and a staple puller. Around the monitor there are several post-it notes with the phone numbers of local contacts and the various account numbers that I need throughout the day.  Along the right hand side of the monitor is a list of all fifty states and which territory teams are responsible for the various locations. 

The computer mouse is on the left hand side of the keyboard. On the right hand side of the keyboard there is a legal pad with a pencil and green pen resting on top.  Directly next to the monitor stand on the right side is my tape dispenser and stapler along with my glue stick and extra staples. Next to the stapler is my pen caddy which has various pens, rubber bands, push-pins, pencils and a scissor stuffed into it.  Next to that and slightly to the right of the legal pad is my stand with ruler designed to assist me with inputting orders. Above that on the wall is the 2006 holiday schedule for my company and the menus for two local delis.  My calculator is in between my order stand and my free standing book holder which has the current wholesale price list complete with annotations on display – this is used as a reference guide for answering customer questions and providing assistance with ordering. At the very end of the right hand side of my desk is my purse (white linen barrel shape with pink patent leather trim and handles) and a roll of paper towels.  I have file cabinets under both ends of the desk.

And that is my little world at work.  At the end of this sentence there will be ___ number of words: 2,021

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Blog Homework
Category: Writing and Poetry

Well the homework I set myself didn't go as well as planned this weekend.  I ended up being very busy and spending a few late nights out which didn't help any.  Then yesterday I was so busy at work that what I did manage to write never made it into this blog.  Anyway, here is what I came up with, it's very rough, short and unfinished but I kind of like where it is going.  Please feel free to critique it - I look forward to hearing what you have to say.

~

The church was empty except for the funeral director standing silent and still behind the last pew, myself, garbed in traditional, mourning black and the corpse of my father in his oak casket.  I shivered as I stood, staring at the body of the man who sired me; the damp of the old stone church bit deeply into my bones as it always did whenever I entered St. Paul's.

Forty years ago I stood in front of the same alter, wearing a miniature version of the black dress and fur coat that I would wear forty years later.  My father held my hand tightly while his trembled as we said good bye to my mother as she lay in her champagne satin lined coffin.

The next day and every day thereafter for several years I stood at the top of the cellar stairway waiting for Sister Mary to open the black metal door so I could enter the nursery; my father would hold my hand until the door swung open, then he would kiss my cheek and nudge me down the stairs. 

The damp was always present even on the sunniest of days. Fifteen years ago my father walked me down this aisle towards the alter where John stood trembling, crying and smiling.  The dark mahogany pews were festooned with pink satin bows and white roses.  I didn't notice the damp that day but I know it was there as evidenced by the mildew stains on the scraps of ribbon I saved.

I've seen my father cry only twice, both times in this church, both times tears of loss.

The funeral director clears his throat, the sound echoing from the rafters.  The heavy metal doors at the back of the church creak open then slam shut and soft footsteps move up the aisle towards me.  Small feet in black patent leather shoes stop next to me; small hand in a white glove slips into my trembling one.  My daughter, wearing the black dress and fur coat I wore to her grandmother's funeral turns her eyes to the coffin in front of us.  She tugs slightly on my hand and asks:

"Is it time to say goodbye to Grandpa now?"

6:03 AM - 7 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

A Witch, a Vampire and a country singer
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Writing and Poetry

A few years ago when Buffy the Vampire Slayer was really popular (and still on the air) I was one of the legion of fanfiction writers who would take Joss Whedon's characters and force them into roles created in the author's mind.  My personal favorite pairing was Willow and Spike as lovers, usually with Angel lurking around the edges of it.  This was the start to story in which I was going to create a relationship between Willow and Spike which eventually came to an end as they both believed each had betrayed the other. I got as far as the prologue in which ten years have passed and Willow is married to Oz.  Things go wrong and she intends to return to Spike's protection.  The story was going to focus on what she would go through to reclaim his protection and flash backs to the relationship they had shared.  Of course eventually it would come to light that neither had betrayed the other and the love they shared was still alive.  Anyway, I dusted off this prologue thinking that even if I no longer want to work with Joss's characters it isn't a bad beginning to a supernatural romance story anyway.

Oh yes, the song is Garth Brook's "Thunder Rolls".

Enjoy:

It's three-thirty in the morning, not a soul in sight
The city's looking like a ghost town on a moonless summer night
Raindrops on the windshield, there's a storm moving in
He's heading back from somewhere that he never should have been
And the thunder rolls And the thunder rolls

Oz sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair checking in the rearview mirror to make sure it didn't look more mussed than usual. He hoped she wouldn't be waiting up for him but with the storm coming she probably would be. Willow hated thunder. He sighed again. He'd really been hoping to avoid her tonight.

He started the car and backed out into the street. He knew that he could make it across town in a matter of minutes. The streets were always deserted now. Buffy had even been reassigned since the current vampire master had no interest in world domination or opening the Hellmouth. He kept the city under control. If Buffy had still been here she probably would be waiting with Willow for him. Since she left Willow had been mostly alone, all of her friends having left years ago.

He drove past the new High School and smiled grimly as he remembered that night ten years past when the old Sunnydale High had been burned to the ground. Xander had left that summer to travel the world, actually managed to make a career out of it, writing for a travel magazine.

Cordelia moved to LA and was still working for Angel at his detective agency; Willow saw them every once in a while.

Buffy and Giles went to Cleveland.

And Spike…well Spike wasn't a part of their lives anymore.

Oz smiled as he turned onto his street. He could see the light in the dining room was on and a solitary figure was waiting by the window. Yes, Willow was alone except for him, just the way he wanted it.

Every light is burning in the house across town
She's pacing by the telephone in her favorite flannel gown
Asking for a miracle, hoping she's not right
Praying it's the weather that's kept him out all night
And the thunder rolls And the thunder rolls

Willow glared at the phone that refused to ring. The thunder crashed causing her to jump and squeak slightly in alarm. She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly as the storm got worse. She hated storms; usually she would curl into a tight ball and huddle in the shelter of her husband's arms. She had tried to do just that when the storm started only to find herself the only one in bed.

Oz had played a gig at the Bronze tonight but he should have been home by 2:00. When Willow had heard the first crash of thunder the clock by the side of the bed had read 2:30. Willow frowned as she glanced out the window checking the empty street for any signs of his car.

He'd been coming home late for the last few weeks. A memory of finding him in a crypt with a she-wolf flashed across her mind. She quickly shook her head. Oz had come back with the wolf under control. He still loved her and she figured it was only fair to give him a second chance the same way he had given her one. That had been eight years ago. They'd been married for seven. He'd never given her cause to doubt that she was all he wanted. Except for the nights that he came in late.

Willow shook her head again. Oz was all she had left in this town. She was sure that the storm had just delayed him a little bit. Or maybe Devon had needed help tearing down the equipment. She caught her breath as she saw headlights heading towards her house.

She's waiting by the window when he pulls into the drive
She rushes out to hold him thankful he's alive
But on the wind and rain a strange new perfume rose
The lightning flashes in her eyes and he knows that she knows
And the thunder rolls And the thunder rolls

Willow threw open the front door and rushed out to the driveway heedless of the rain that plastered her hair to her head and made it appear that dark red blood was streaming down her back. As Oz stepped out of the car she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest.

"Oh goddess! I thought something might have happened to you, with the storm and…" Willow's words stumbled to a halt as she caught the smell of something on his shirt. She leaned closer and sniffed the shirt. The sticky sweet smell of Chanel No. 5 reached her nostrils. She flung her head up and shoved him backward into the side of the car.

"Damn you!! How long Oz? How many this time?" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides and her eyes reflected the lightning as she was hit with the knowledge that once again he had been unfaithful to her.

He reached out for her but she jerked her arm away and ran for the house.

She runs back down the hallway and slams the bedroom door
She reaches for the pistol kept in the dresser drawer
She tells the lady in the mirror he won't do this again
Cause tonight will be the last time she'll wonder where he's been

Willow's fingernails tore as she clawed at the front door finally getting it open. She ran through her house blinded by the tears of rage that filled her eyes. How could he? After all they had been through. Something in the back of her mind acknowledged that she had really known that he'd never been faithful to her, his excuses always a little too weak for her to accept, but she did, he was all she had in this town.

Willow made it into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her throwing the deadbolt that Giles had insisted she install so many years ago. When she had married Oz the watcher had given her what others thought was a joke gift: A deadbolt for the bedroom door in case Oz had ever lost control and come after her during a full moon. The other gift was in the dresser drawer.

Willow dried her tears as she reached a shaking hand towards the oak dresser and slowly opened the top drawer. She reached inside and withdrew Giles's wedding present. A .45 caliber pistol with a full clip of silver tipped bullets. He had included a note that said he hoped she'd never have to use it but he thought that she would feel safer knowing she could defend herself. She had smiled and kissed him on the cheek knowing that the gun was more for his peace of mind than hers. But now…now.

She heard the noise of Oz pounding on the door demanding to be let in so he could talk to her. Tell her that it hadn't meant anything, that it was a mistake. Willow nodded when she heard him say that. It was a mistake, the last one he would ever make. Her eyes were dry and her hand was steady as she took aim at the door.

"Goodbye Oz." She pulled the trigger, once, twice. She heard the thud as his body hit the carpet of their hallway.

The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes
Another love grows cold on a sleepless night
And as the storm grows all out of control
Deep in her heart the thunder rolls

There was a second thud as the heavy pistol dropped from Willow's suddenly nerveless fingers to land on the green carpet that they had decided on for their bedroom < because it matches your eyes > Oz had whispered, nuzzling her neck while the saleswomen looked on with an indulgent smile for the newlyweds. She stumbled backwards until the backs of her knees hit the bed forcing her to sit down abruptly.

There was absolute blankness in her eyes. Willow continued to stare at the closed door for several minutes. She gulped in a huge breath of air and shook herself as if she had suddenly surfaced from underneath the icy coating of a pond in mid-December. Reality intruded. In a city where corpses with their necks torn out and no blood were considered commonplace, a gunshot in the middle of the night was still enough for the neighbors to call 911 about. And surprisingly the police would actually respond with something approaching haste. With the storm there was the possibility that no one had heard but regardless Devon would be showing up at the house to meet with Oz and compare notes over last night's performance at noon and he was sure to notice if Oz was lying on the carpet in a pool of blood.

Willow shook herself again and forced herself to stand. Her body obeyed mechanically, jerking stiffly as if she had been sitting in the same position for days rather than a few minutes. She crossed the carpet and opened the drawer that until recently had held the pistol which lay forgotten on the carpet. Inside the drawer were only four other objects. A box of silver tipped bullets, a black leather dress, black calf high stiletto boots and a emerald and sapphire choker set in platinum. A smile ghosted across Willow's face as her fingers brushed the choker. Had Oz known of its existence he would have pawned it years before but he never invaded this one drawer. He claimed it was because of the gun and his aversion to silver, Willow let him believe that, never mentioning that it had more to do with the powerful spell she had placed on it, the last spell she had ever performed. Sighing softly she reached in a removed the dress.

Willow watched herself in the mirror as she removed the faded flannel gown and let the garment pool at her feet. She drew the leather over her head inhaling deeply of its scent - blood and cigarettes. She shifted until the hem settled on her thighs. Then she began to lace up the sides with the thin silk chord that was all that kept the back and the front attached to one another. She giggled as the memory of the first time she had worn the dress flashed in her mind.

"C'mon out pet, I want to see it."
"I can't…"
"Now Red!"
"But I can't wear any…you know…with it!"
"I know, pet, that's the whole point."

She finished tying the cords and checked in the mirror to make sure that the dress was centered and that her breasts rode high enough without exposing the nipples. Everything would have to be perfect if she even hoped to reclaim his protection. She wobbled slightly in the stilettos before catching her balance. Raising her hands to her hair she proceeded to braid it into nine thin braids which she then braided together until her hair was woven in a pattern that would confuse the eye of anyone who looked too long at it.

Satisfied with her appearance Willow headed for the door. Her hand trembled as she reached for the deadbolt and prepared to unlock it. Her husband's body would be laying in the hallway. She wrapped her arms around herself as she began to shake. Once again she backed away from the door. Before she hit the bed her eyes was caught by the reflection of the choker in the mirror.

She stared at it for a long moment before finally reaching in and retrieving the piece of jewelry. He had sent it after all, even after everything that had happened. His note had been typically brief. Just that she had left it behind and that she might want it someday. At the time she had been furious, how dare he think that she would want a reminder of that time in her life, especially after what he had done…and what she had done. She had only kept it thinking that she might need it to sell someday. A small half smile lifted the corner of her mouth, he had been right again, she did want it now. She licked her index finger and drew a line in the air.

"One for his side." She murmured, keeping track in a years old contest that was all but forgotten by the people who had played it. Her hands were still shaking as she raised the choker to its proper place around her slender neck. As she fastened the clasp the trembling seemed to abate slightly and when she reached for the deadbolt a second time her hands were steady. She threw the bolt and turned the knob letting the door swing inward. She took a step forward and looked down at the floor ready to accept what she knew she would see.

Oz's body was gone.

That must have been when the real shock set in, Willow decided as she stood in the pouring rain outside of the old Sunnydale High School which was now a single building erected in the area of the old library. It was a memorial to all the young people killed by the "Sunnydale Syndrome" as people put it. All the unexplained deaths were mourned here.

As she stepped forward a low chiming sound called Willow's attention to her hand. She was holding her car keys. Must have driven here she reflected. She opened her hand and let the keys fall to the muddy earth. One more piece of evidence for the police who would be investigating at least one disappearance in the morning. The mud sucked at her boots as she made her way past the building to the grate that covered the entrance to the sewers which Angel had once used as his own private highway under Sunnydale.

An image of the dark-haired vampire flashed through Willow's mind. She wondered if Cordelia would have a vision that would send the two of them racing to town only to find her gone, or safe, whichever they might call it. The gate shrieked as she pulled on it, ten years of rust giving way grudgingly. Willow took one last look at the surface world before dropping without a sound into the dark tunnels underneath.

12:45 PM - 9 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment