workday.

"Censure me in my leisure, and awake your senses. ... No.  That doesn't sound right.  I can never remember when I need to."

Morgan turned toward me with an incredulous look, an awful smirk etched carefully on his face.  "That is, em, masterful, sir.  I must salute you for, em, managing to copy Shakespeare by misunderstanding and misquoting his work.  Truly, truly."  He struggled to keep his face straight.
      "Really, Morg, I can't do this.  How do I write something... like this... for anything... like this?  Eh?"
"It's a ruddy obituary, Sam.  Don't.  Use.  Shakespeare.  You'll regret it."
      "Mmmmm... mmm.  I can't.  I'--"
"Yes, you're having an existential crisis.  Don't deny it, man.  As Richard the Third said, em, 'chop off his head, man.'"
      "You scrub."
"Ah, us scrubs, the intellectual garbage of the news world.  Love it."
      Out of a sudden urge to act out a movie scene probably found in most modern romantic comedies, I crumpled the paper up, stood up to throw it into the waste basket, and stubbed my toe on Morgan's table leg.  The office buzzed with suppressed laughter.  Morgan smiled in an utterly condescending, charming way.
"At least, sir, I do my job with integrity and surety; I'm a perfect, em, scrub.  You got some work to do though."
     
      "Scrub."
"It's due before lunch break."
      "Oh."

blue backpack.

"Don't move." The lights flick on and the door of the room snaps shut.

She freezes, fingers gripping the blue backpack on the table in front of her. Her back is to the door.

With slow, measured steps, the man walks around the table until he faces her. He smiles when he sees her face. "Angela! What brings you to my dining room at four in the morning?"

Her lips twitch twice before forming a tense smile. Digging her fingernails into her palms to stop their trembling she rests her elbow on the backpack. "I left my graphing calculator here. I needed it for a... assignment due tomorrow and..." Mind spinning wildly she laughs, trying to dispel the tension that hangs in the air between them, thicker than her mother's lobster bisque. "I was pulling an all nighter! You know, college is tough! I didn't want to wake you so I figured I'd just sneak in and grab it."

The man's brow furrows, "You have the key?"

Angela twists one of her long blonde curls around her finger. "Yeah! Hannah gave it to me the other day when we were working on homework. She said it was just in case of emergency, you know?" She grins widely.

"Hannah, gave you the key? When? Hannah's been away all week. When did you leave your... what did you say? Calculator?"

"Yes, sir. My calculator. I left it a week or so ago but I guess I didn't need it until now so I forgot," she says, sliding the backpack over her shoulder. "See you another time, Mr. Judson!"

He takes two steps forward and grabs the backpack as she turns to leave, "Not so fast, Angela." The zipper breaks as he tears it open and dumps the contents onto the table.

Three bananas he had bought the day before. A teddy bear that Hannah had outgrown. A blanket from the downstairs couch. A roll of paper towels  and four spoons from next to the sink. He didn't recognize the rest of the items. A ziplock bag filled with dozens of plastic frogs. A box or crackers. A jar of applesauce. A picture frame, lying with it's stand in the air.

He reaches down and flips the picture frame over to reveal a laughing little girl with strawberry blonde pigtails and dozens of freckles. He looks up at Angela - red hair tied up in a ponytail, freckles scattered across her nose. Tears stream down her cheeks.

She darts forwards grabs the crackers and the teddy bear and runs out the back door.

The little girl in the picture smiles up at him from the wooden picture frame in his hand.

unused.

      Angels, angels and demons.  They mock me.  I am the in-between, the unused, the neglected, like torn fringe on a petticoat.  But they do use me.  I am the secret hiding place.  For meetings in the dark, for lovers in their shameful visits with... They use me.  Imperfection after imperfection I harbor.

      This is well.  I am imperfection.  We will blend

well.  Together we make up a constant denial of the ideal, the perfection.  We loathe it.  We loathe the mediums of glamour and brightly shining, shining, shining...... perfection.  Get it away from us.  Burn.  

Quietly.

      Anger?  We have it not.  Guilt?  We have it not.  We do not live in this place.  We are this place, and the imperfection permeates it, but not us.  I.  Burn.

Us.

      Mercy, let us drink.

caffeine flashback - 1.0

Inward gazing, mist hazing.

Life erasing, babes chastising?

No.

      Sullenly, I crumpled up the paper and threw it at the waste receptacle.  This was an awful way to start three hours of the so-called "relaxed song-writing time".  Sitting in Caribou, nothing left to write except awful words that wouldn't fit anywhere.  I realized I'd missed the rubbish box.  "Have to get up, too."  This phrase, muttered under my breath and followed with a sigh, was quite supposed to be a private statement.

"No, I'll get it."

"I'm sorry?"

      She stood, picked up the offending article, and placed it deftly inside the bin.  I realized I'd used three different words to describe a trash can.  Why...?  For both actions.

"Em, thank you."

      Smiles are the funniest things.  They can brighten your day, they can let you know that you no longer have to sit up straight since you won't be hired anyway, they can inspire you, they can make you walk into poles.  This one... was everything except one.  Guess.

"I'm sorry, I guess you didn't notice me staring at you.  I was sitting next to you and I couldn't help but notice...  Stephen?"  Her hands twisted together nervously.  My mind was doing the same thing, but more out of confusion.

"What?  I, I mean, yes.  You are...?"

"Oh you know me!  You don't... I mean you don't remember, but you do!  Really.  You know me.  Mmmm."

Mmmm.  That was familiar.  I'd picked up the habit from her.

"Julie?"

This was the walk-into-poles one.

"Yes."  

long - 1.3

"This has been our world for countless years now.  You and I, Hero, we do not notice the mortality of those who are... mortal."
"I notice.  I see them die.  I-- wait.  I am mortal."
That smile.  "Well.  That may change."  Don't look, don't look.
"Look."  It was no friendly suggestion.
"Keep... going."
A map slid out from under the table, conveniently into her hand.  The microwave beeped.
"Ah.  After we partake of this innovation I stumbled upon weeks ago."
The package says... Hot Pocket?
"Yes, I believe that is what humans call them."
"And you dragons would eat this?"
"We are wyvern formes, Hero.  And I enjoy this quite a lot.  It says, ground beef.  I quite like a cow."
I laughed.  Why did I do that?
"Thank you."
"You do know though, they are extremely unhealthy."
She gasped.
"Oh, no.  No.  I've been trying to cut down the excess around my chin, here..."
Don't look.
"Yes, don't look."  She blushed.  I looked.


"Sorry."
"No, I don't... do you find it repulsive?"
I stared at her, worrying at the excess fat that clearly wasn't there, pulling at her chin.
"Uh.  No.  I don't."
"You don't like it!"
"No, no, yes, I do!"
She smiled.
Why did I... "Oh.  No."