Ella's Oneshots

[Ella]

Fandom: -, references to Endgame
Summary: This oneshot is loosely based on/inspired by Samuel Beckett’s contributions to the Theatre of the Absurd - so don’t fret if some stuff doesn’t make sense, it isn’t always supposed to make sense. Lazy writing, I know, but a lot of it will be references to the play Endgame, and the sentence “Better kill it before it dies” is almost literally lifted from that (I wish I had made that up myself, but unfortunately I’m not a literary genius), as are the names. The characters, however, are quite different from in the play, and this is supposed to take place long before the Endgame really begins. The colourless world was inspired by Roos’s prompt, She dreamed up the world in sepia colours, but is one of the things in this that is entirely mine, even though I do imagine it being a same sort of no man’s land as the setting of Beckett’s plays, maybe just a little more earthly. If you are wondering about this spacing thing I didn’t use to do before, that is entirely influenced by the Creative Writing course I am currently doing, which taught me that this is apparently ‘standard’.
Words: 1319

I dreamed up the world in sepia colours

           I dreamed up the world in sepia colours. I realise that might sound a little bit odd to the average reader, if such a thing exists. Where I come from, most readers have ceased to exist anyway. My father is one of the few people in my near environment I catch diving in to books every now and then, but most of us have lost the imagination. 
           It’s not because I’m blind, or have deficient eyes in any other way. That didn't cause the dream. I know very well that the world isn’t coloured sepia – or at least, not these days. I don’t think there is any particular deep reason behind the fact that I visited a world which looked like that during the meagre five hours of sleep I got last night, or behind the particular colour I dreamed in. I dream of the desert almost every night. It had just never been in colour.
          I have no idea where the colour came from. It’s a ludicrous notion. Everyone who is left knows the world isn’t any colour. It hasn’t been for a long time. My father used to tell me how his great-grandfather used to remember. But even he forgot over time. So my father just showed me and my brother books. They showed us what the world had once looked like, before everything had changed. He had showed us a green island in the middle of the ocean, covered in rocks and moss and grass and with all types of animals on it. They had different colours and different shapes and didn’t all mean to kill or harm. Some of them were just there. Like ants, apparently. I can’t remember having ever seen an ant in my entire life, even though my dad says he sometimes spots them. Only when he looks very closely. We had a rat once, though. We found it in the kitchen. My brother wanted to keep it as a pet and managed to hide it in his rooms for three days straight. Then my father found out and broke the poor bugger’s neck.
          “Better kill it before it dies,” he had said.
          Neither me nor my brother had understood at the time, but that is a long time ago now. We understand. And we survive.
          He also showed us the deserts of the East though, and those have stayed my favourites over the years. Even though my father doesn’t look at those books anymore, and prefers Aquinas’s essays on aesthetics and his proof of the existence of God nowadays, I still peek into them sometimes. My husband always reprimands me for it. Says I shouldn’t have vain hopes. It is finished. What is lost is lost.
          And anyway, it’s just words on the page. Any colour that may have graced the neat stack of books that is kept in the back of the cupboard have drained from it years ago, and if there were ever any pictures, they must have left. I don’t blame them.
          “It came to me at night, Clov,” I say, hugging my knees and resting my chin on them. My hair hides the holes in my stockings. I look into his eyes as he looms over me, and does me the favour of not immediately dismissing my dream. I know my father would have. My husband isn’t much better. They had both lost hope, so I didn’t tell them. At some point you have to stop asking, and Clov was always there. He understands. He is a young chap, and he still feels the same longing that fills my veins and coats my blood.
          “What did it look like?” he whispers. Genuine curiously was something hard to come by, but I know where his fascination comes from. I have seen him looking through the two small windows we have for hours and hours, and I know it never really stops. He was one of the last to have been more outside, so that was where he kept looking. I know his people will never return for him as sure as I know my mother will have long perished. It’s all zero there. But one never really stops looking for answers, so he keeps looking. And so do I.
          “I can’t remember,” I say, and it is not a complete lie. “Like I always hoped.”
          “That’s a shit answer, Nell,” the boys says, but he grins. I know he understands. He knows more about the outside than I do, and even though he has tried to explain to me, to us, what it was like, what he remembers, it is hard to explain something to others who have no notion of it at all. It’s like explaining how a radio works to an ant, a creature which according to my father has no sense human technology whatsoever.
          “I wish you could tell me,” he says, and I wish with him.
          “I can try,” I say, grinding my teeth, because I know I will fail.
          “Can you?” His eyes shining hopefully. He is only a kid, to the standards we have now. I know it would have been different before, but right now, he’s only a kid. He’s our kid.
          I think back to the night, and try not to remember the disappointing feeling of a world in which black and white is all that remains. Barren, empty land without a purpose. “I was in the desert, in the middle of it. Do you remember the books my father used to read you?”
          Clov nods. “My father hates them.”
          “Like father, like son,” I say bitterly. Clov had been adopted in one hell of a family, the poor little bugger. “But it was like that. The sands, the hills, it was beautiful. I saw the sun, I think.”
          Clov lights up. “I think I remember the sun.”
          I shake my head. “The sun went eighty years ago. You can’t remember that.” I think for a moment. “Maybe the moon.”
          Clov nods again. “Maybe.”
          A silence falls between us, and he looks at me as if he has never seen me before.
          “Can you tell me about the colour?”
          I shake my head. “I know it was sepia. I dreamed up a world in sepia colours, the words just popped up in my head when I awoke. I know it was colour, because it wasn’t black and white.”
          “Some would argue one of those is a colour.” Clov offers a smile.
          I laugh. “Some are stupid.” I brush some of the hair out of my face. Even if our world knew colour, I am reasonably certain mine would be grey by now. I turn older fast, and I dread the day my father will go. He has already lost his legs, and anticipates the rest of him to go rather quickly.
          “What does sepia look like?”
          I sigh. “I don’t know, Clov.” Not like black and white. “Like the desert.”
          Clov turns a sad eye to me. “I wish I understood. I wish I could dream up a colour.” He hesitates for a moment before he blurts out: “I wish I could be in the desert. I wish I could feel it and finally see.”
          I think of the sands and the rush of the wind on my white skin. I remember that. A promise that there is more out there, and a sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, not all is lost. If some of us have left the imagination, it’s only a small stretch to the real, isn’t it? I remember it so clearly, but I cannot find the words to explain. A sensation, a deep understanding between me and the sepia world surrounding me. “So do I, Clov.” I fill my lungs with colourless air, a last reminder we are all still alive, even if we are only barely so. “So do I.”

[Ella]

Fandom: Peter Pan, of sorts
Summary: This fic is, sort of, a Peter Pan fanfiction, even though it is more of a long prologue to Peter Pan than an actual fanfic, and some of the stuff I write may not at all be compliant with the actual book. The title was taken from Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.
Words: 6464

Such stuff as dreams are made on

In a cold night like the one you are currently experiencing, little white snowflakes covering the rooftops, you would expect most people to be safely in their beds, the streets deserted except for an occasional cat retreating to the home front. Perhaps a coach of late night workers trying to get inside before the weather will turn its course and storm will wreak havoc in the silent neighbourhood. At least, that is what I imagine the streets of London would look like on this particularly winter night.
The same could be expected on a ship sailing through the dreary a darkness. The date is 28 January 1769, and almost every toe setting foot on the ship has been frozen at some point in the last couple of days. The Endeavour left the Bay of Good Success only a few days ago, but the crew could still feel the ice and the snow in their veins as they breathed, even if most of it was out of sight. It was colder than they could ever had imagined, and they had been taken by surprise by the death of two of their own a couple of days ago. The snow had done them in, and they had frozen to their deaths. The members of the crew had feared the same fate ever since their found their blueing bodies motionless on the deck, and the captain had to call on them three times before they had calmed down enough to give their fellow travellers a seaman’s grave. This makes it very likely that the crew, indeed, would remain on their posts inside, or perhaps try to find an inexistent warmth underneath their ragged blankets. It is likely, but what is likely is not always necessarily the truth. If you look very well - no, a little more to the left, my dear - you can just make out a small figure, a mere shadow in the grey winter. A young man is leaning over the railing, watching the waves without minding the cold.
James, because that is the name of the hero of this story, had longed for the sea since he was a little babe crying in his cot. His father had been a sailor, a trader, and even though he had died at the sea when James was only seven years old, the boy could not wait to follow his footsteps, all the way to the colonies. To him, the city was like a rope tightening around his neck, choking him to an early death. His mother had despaired, of course, frightened to lose another member of her beloved family, but in the end she had not wanted to hold her son back. The sea was in his blood, and she knew it would never leave him. There was a thrill his is disposition which could never be satisfied, not even if it would kill him. Besides, the boy was well-mannered. He had learned that at college, and from his father. He knew form. He would obey the law. She had nothing to worry about. Little did she know that it was exactly this notion of good form her cheeky little son wished to escape.
Of course, as may be expected, James’s reality wasn't exactly a dream come true. Life was hard on the ship, and even though James himself would defend his captain until his last dying breath, I will be frank with you: he was a vain and cruel man, who did not care in the least for his subordinates. It is a well-known phenomenon. Gentlemen may look gentlemen-like, if you will, yet when they leave their natural habitat and set off to exotic destinations, separated from rationalist society, they start to behave rather differently - especially when you give them a drink to hold. In short, James's time at sea had been rather miserable, even if he hadn't admitted this to himself yet. Little boys like to hold on to their dreams, until one day the last silver lining shatters. Then it’s usually too late.  
James, however observant the boy was to the waves which were clashing against the prow, was not observant enough in his manner this night. What James didn’t see, and what many of you probably haven’t spotted yet either, is the tiny light flying towards the ship. It was very fast, even if it couldn’t be distinguished as such. You see, it was a small fairy. They belong to the fastest creatures on this earth, and perhaps also if you count otherworldly creatures, but they happen to be rather small, which makes their movements look much slower than they in reality are. This particular fairy went by the name Tamara, for no other reason than that she thought it very pretty. Peter thought so too – oh, I forgot to tell you. Tamara was one of the elves whose name was commonly associated with Peter Pan. Or, so did Peter think. Little did he know that he had befriended many of the fairies before her, and that many would follow, leaving the poor Tamara forgotten. For now, however, I can tell you to associate Tamara with Peter, and –
Oh, I forget, I haven’t introduced you to Peter yet! How silly of me, seeing Peter is a very important character in his story. Peter was a curious boy. First of all, he never aged a day. I have had many encounters with him in the past, and he always looks… well, twelvish is the best way in which I can describe it. Secondly, even though he has no constant companions, he is never alone. His company is always made up of one fairy and a band of boys, called the lost boys. His opponents are equally invariable. There are, of course, the redskins. Peter didn’t care too much about them, but the boys were obsessed with them, and every now and then a battle would take place. Nothing too serious, though – at most a few deaths –, as Peter’s primary goal was his everlasting battle against the pirates. The composition of their group, too, changed, albeit for a different reason than in Peter’s company. Peter hardly ever killed his companions, or as some would call them, ‘friends’, but did tend to forget them. It seems cruel, but it is the simple truth, and a reality of existence. Whether this caused the lost boys to die after all, I cannot tell you – every few weeks, boys just started to disappear. With the pirates, however, it was a different matter. As their game with the boys was a simple make-believe, hardly anyone ever died in their fights. For the grown men, the gentlemen of the sea and those who had accepted the finality of life, this was not enough. They wanted real action – true fights. So, every now and then, they would stage a mutiny. Just for the fun of it, you know. As you perhaps remember playing it with your friend or brothers or sisters of maybe pets when you were littler, these pirates played it in real life. I do not know whether at that point I am not allowed to call it ‘play’ anymore, for in some senses that was still what it was. It wasn’t that there was any real spite or animosity between the men, it was mostly just boredom. And just ask anyone about boredom – you know what that can do to people. But as I tried to tell you, the pirates staged a munity every couple of months. Their ancien régime would be replaced by a bourgeoisie, and the other way around, if pirates even kept track of such terms. The captain is invariably killed during the small riots which tend to take place, and usually takes a part of the crew members with him. This had been the course of events in Neverland – for that was the name of the island where all those curious characters reside – for many, many years.
Tonight, however, change was to come to the island. Change that would not be forgotten for a long time – even if Peter himself would forget fairly quickly.
Ah, turn your attention to the ship again, if you please. Our young friend has spotted the glowing creature, and is making attempts to converse with her. Luckily, Peter has joined their conversation, for the fairy language is not understandable or even faintly recognisable as language to the human ear. There is a look of unbelief on James’s face. Perhaps he thinks he’s dreaming. It wouldn’t strike me as surprising if he did indeed think that. He had been educated at a very important school, and had learned the difference between the imaginary and the real a long time ago. Even if he had wished to leave the rational world behind, if reason has been that deeply inbred into your soul, it can never truly leave you. For now, all that James remembered was that believing in magical creatures wasn’t good form.
As true as this all may be, Peter still found in the young James a boy who believed. He had his dreams about the sea, which were as real to him as the top left button on my overcoat.
How do you know I really have an overcoat, and if he top left button isn’t missing?
Well, you don’t, I guess. But I can tell you that every word I speak to you is the naked truth. If you choose not to believe that, that is your own choice, but you might as well stop reading. It’s not good form to have the audacity to question your Master narrator.
“There are pirates?” Disgust coated the boy’s voice, as if pirates were the worst people in the entire universe. To him, they were. The counterparts of everything his father had ever stood for, everything his life stood for. He was an adventurer, but he had no intention of becoming a plunderer. He had a free spirit, yet James did not intend to give up all decency.
Tamara nodded, her little face flushed. Even if she had known all of this for a long time, she still got excited about every single aspect of the island. It was her home.
“And mermaids. And Indians,” Peter added.
James let out a huff. “Pirates are lawless savages.”
“Tamara thought you were a pirate,” Peter said. The fairy was sitting on James’s arm and stared at him with genuine interest in her round eyes.
James shook his head in disdain. “I am a member of the Royal Navy,” he said, as proudly as a boy his age can usually muster. “I sail under the flag of the King.”
“What king?” Peter asked. “And what do you sail for then?”
“Why, King James of course!” There was shock on his face, for he truly failed to understand how any person could not be aware of who the king was. Even if James had been taught geography on his fancy school, he still lacked an awareness that Great-Britain wasn’t the centre of the universe to everyone. “We sail to discover new parts of the world.”
Neither Peter nor Tamara understood this. All sailors they knew were the pirates. Even though they had to admit that this boy looked nothing like them, Peter considered the notion of James not being a pirate a little hard to swallow. The unfamiliar usually is, isn’t it?
“So you wouldn’t want to meet some pirates?” he said. It was in Peter’s mind to test the boy, and see if he wasn’t really a pirate. If he was one of them, he would see it immediately in the way in which he behaved in front of the others. Peter thought this a very clever plan of his.
James thought about this for a while, considering all the options he had, and sweeping the deck with his inquisitive eyes and ears. It would not do if there were crewmembers listening in. “It would be quite an adventure, I reckon.”
Peter screeched. “Come on then!”
James looked at the other boy with wonder. “But how do we get to this Neverland you have told me about?”
“We’ll fly,” Peter said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world – which for him it was. He jumped up into the air, and, to James’s surprise, remained there, floating in the dark night. “See, it’s easy!”
James also jumped up, but found that the air didn’t carry him as heartily. He fell down and frowned. What was he doing wrong? He wasn’t used to making mistakes, as he tended to make as few of them as possible.
He was astounded when the other boy laughed at him. He seemed to find James’s incompetence the funniest thing on the world, and James couldn’t help but feels a little angry with his new companion’s bad form.
The fairy was kinder than Peter (in this particular moment at least, since the tempers of fairies shift easily) and showed James how it was done – fairy dust!
Up they flew, deep, deep into the night. James couldn’t see where they were going – that is how dark it was – but at that moment he found that, for once, he didn’t really care. It was all very exciting, and after the dreary days on the ship, he loved a good adventure. That was exactly what he had hoped for at sea, but what had not come during his time with the company.
“Do you see that star there?” Peter screamed, and his eyes lit up as if they were the only spectres of light in the whole wide universe. As if they were the whole arrangement of stars themselves.
James nodded.
“That’s where Neverland is! Follow that star, and then turn right when it loses your sight.”
“Are you sure about that?” James thought that was a strange way to give directions.
“Of course I’m sure!” the boy cried, a certain arrogance bloating his features. He had that way of talking and looking, as if he was almost offended when you doubted him.
They flew for hours and hours, maybe even days. James didn’t understand how his body kept going the way it did, without any food or drink getting inside it, but going he did, until, finally, there was a glimpse of the island on the horizon.
“It’s beautiful,” James breathed.
“Yeah, it’s quite all right,” said Peter in his nonchalant manner.
It was striking to James. This boy was so much unlike anyone he had ever met. He was not like the other boys at school. His behaviour and manners were entirely strange to him, and for a moment he wondered if he made the right decision. That thought was replaced with excitement within the matter of seconds, as his eye caught the ship sailing around the island. “Pirates!” he yelled.
“Oh, yes,” Peter said, and as soon as he spoke those words, a cannon fired at them.
We will now take a look at the pirates. Not for long, but it’s important that you meet them before I continue my story. The crew is made up of very different men. Some of them are English, but most of them are from the Spanish mainland. Unlike in the stories, all of those pirates still have their legs, hands and eyes. Pirates are not as careless as the world is eager to make them look, nor are they as brutish and as dangerous. Not yet, at least. For now, they are perfect gentlemen of the sea. Of course, they steal, every now and then – but that doesn’t change their manners. They all have perfect form, and most of all their current captain, Blackbeard.
It is most curious, though, that they were sailing around the island. You see, there were no big ships to rob, no other captains to clash with, no Royal Navy to pester. There were just the boys – and perhaps that was why they stayed around the harbour of Neverland for so long. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t beat those small kids. It annoyed them to a great extent, as you might well understand. The brutish little brats kept bothering them. That’s why they didn’t leave – they simply couldn’t leave until they had taught them a little respect. Good form.
Now look again at the cloud behind which our hero hides. The pirates are still firing at him and Peter, but do they show fear? Don’t be silly! James had been well warned that his journey could encompass such dangers, and he was more than ready to kick a little pirate ass, if you will excuse my language.   
“Will we fight them, Peter?” he asked in a small, eager voice.
Peter shook his head. “Not now. Later. I promise. We can’t beat them on our own, especially not the gruesome captain Blackbeard. I want you to come and meet the boys.”
“The boys?” James asked.
“Yes. The lost boys.” He didn’t explain.
James was puzzled. He didn’t want to meet more boys – especially if they were as cryptic as the one he was currently trying to hold up a sensible conversation with. He wanted to meet the pirates. He had heard so much about them on his journey, and he wanted to know if they were indeed as cruel as he was told. He wanted to know those people, and he wanted to defeat them. He finally wanted to do something of use – something to make his parents proud. He wanted to show them good form, and wanted to beat the pirates’ bad form. As for the boys, he wasn’t sure about their form yet. Peter had some show of good form, but his manners were so… careless. He wasn’t sure if he were to envy him or to scorn him, and neither was he entirely sure if he’d ever make up his mind on the matter. That bothered James to a great extent, and it continued them during the entire flight to the mainland, while he glanced back at the adventure Peter had forced him to leave behind.
Time on Neverland passed, as on such islands it is not loath to do, quicker than the human brain can truly grasp. As far as we know, days or even months might have passed. It didn’t take James long to get used to life in Neverland, and you can now observe him sitting in the corner of Peter’s home in the hollow tree, reading a book – one of the few that is left on the island, for the little boys do not enjoy reading as much as James always has. He was sure this should all be frightfully exciting, but most of his interest had long ebbed away. The boys Peter introduced him to were no more than boys, and didn’t share even a small sniff of the hint of good form that James could distinguish in their leader. But the thing that most bothered him was that he hadn’t seen a glimpse of the pirates yet.
“Peter?” he said, a question in the sweet tones of his voice.  
Peter took a few minutes to acknowledge him.
“When will we fight the pirates?”
“Oh,” Peter said. “Someday, undoubtedly.”
James shook his head. What kind of answer was that? “I’m sorry, that’s not good enough.”
Peter frowned, and the other boys had started to listen in. “What do you mean?”
“I came here for the pirates, and you promised we’d go to see them, but I haven’t seen a single pirate yet. I’m going to them myself.” It was a brave façade he put on, our little James, but I believe that at that moment he truly meant his words.
“Fine,” Peter said. “Whatever you want.” He was obviously slightly upset at James’s behaviour. As you can well imagine, Peter had always been the type of boy who wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no’, in whatever form it came to him. He had lived on his own for too long, and couldn’t remember the parents that once might have raised him, or any other people that once may have refused his orders, his bossiness and arrogance. “But don’t come to me when they… well…”
“When they what?” There was almost a threat in James’s voice, as if he was ready to fight his former friend on the matter, as you all may have been expecting he will, someday. Of course, I expect my listeners or readers to know the story I am telling at this moment by heart, or the outcome, anyway. You are familiar with this story, and you know what will come of our hero. But I sometimes fear you may have forgotten. You may have been distracted by the sweet little young boy you see. The adventurer, and the hater of pirates. Have you been fooled?
“When they make you walk the plank… or cut off a limb. You can go,” Peter said, emitting any emotion from his voice. “But you can’t come back.”
“You are so childish!” James screamed. If there was anything he hated, it was childishness. “Grow up!”
This put Peter in a rage neither of the boys had expected. “Is that what you want to do?” His eyes were like fire, and even Tamara seemed slightly scared. And she was never scared of Peter, for she knew she was the one person he would never willingly hurt. “Growing up.” He sounded scornful, and I can tell you with all certainty that he felt that scorn in his old heart. “I don’t want to grow up. If that’s what you want, I wish you the best of luck.”
James was angry too now. He was a good boy, but his temper had already been tried over and over and over during his stay on the island, and now he could no longer bear it. “Fine,” he said, and he slammed the door behind him.
“Fine!” Peter turned up his chin. This was the end of the conversation.
I will now show you our hero, only a couple of hours later, or whatever counts as hours in this forsaken place.
James had to fight against the tears. Even though he thought he had been on the island for days, he was hopelessly lost. He was sitting against one of the larger trees in the forest, mellow rain cluttering down on his head and spreading the cold through his entire body. He felt so very alone. Not that he hadn’t been alone before, but he was now overwhelmed by physical loneliness. There was no one to talk to, there was no one to scream at him… He had that melodramatic idea children have – that he was alone on the world, and that he would be alone forever.
“What’s the matter, lad?” A large man was towering over him, offering him a rough hand.
James looked up at him in wonder.  
“Come into my carriage,” he said. “You gettin’ all wet here.”
Grad he was not entirely lost and alone in this strange land, James followed the yet unidentified man into his carriage. It immediately drove away. James settled himself in the comfortable seat. Only now he had the time to observe his saviour a little closer. He looked like a gentleman, like the men he had encountered in the streets of London the times he went to visit his uncle there. Even though the man wasn’t exactly wearing a three-piece suit, he wasn’t dressed like a native either. He dressed flamboyantly, but James thought there was a certain style to it. The man seemed no older than thirty-eight. He didn’t look like a kind man, but James always found that men of a certain age didn’t look kind anymore. Not the men he met, anyway. Perhaps it wasn’t good form, or else they had simply lost their touch.
The man asked him some questions: what his name was, where he came from, how old he was… He also told some things about himself. His name was Edward Teach and he came from Bristol.
“Do you happen to know Peter Pan?” Teach asked somewhere in their conversation.
This struck a chord in James. He knew he had to be on his guard, but at the same time, he couldn’t care less about Peter and the boys anymore. Peter had broken his promise, and now he would break the one promise he made to Peter. Peter had made him promise one thing: never to tell anyone about his hiding place.
“Yes, I’ve been with him for the last couple of days.” Had it been days, though? He was still unable to tell. “I think.”
“Oh, have you, my boy?” The man looked satisfied. “Why did you leave?”
James decided not to tell him about the pirates. “He broke a promise.”
“Ah, what a horrid thing to do, isn’t it?”
James nodded.
“Bad form,” Teach added. “Say, boy… do you happen to know where they have their hide?”
“Why do you want to know?” Of course, he was going to tell him – this man was kind to him, after all, while Peter had betrayed him and he owed him no loyalty anymore – but he did want to know. For the first time since he had met him, the thought struck him that if this man was not an Indian, nor a boy, he could be a pirate!
“Pan and I have some… unsettled business,” the man said. “And you don’t owe him anything, now do you?”
James shook his head. “I don’t. I’ll show you his hide.”
“Good boy,” the man said, slapping his back. “Good boy.”
And so it happened that James gave Edward Teach the directions to Peter’s home. You must have thought he wouldn’t, at first, didn’t you? You thought well of our little James, and thought he wouldn’t betray his former friend. But he did. Anger is a curious thing, and revenge can consume even the purest soul. And perhaps our hero didn’t have a pure soul to being with. And of course, you must also know something about this Teach, a man whose intentions you have obviously doubted, if you are sound of mind. As it turned out, the man was not quite as alone as James thought he was. “You’re a pirate,” he gasped, as he saw the crew gather around them.
“Aye,” the man admitted. “Perhaps I should have told you… but I was afraid…” he said. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t help me if I told you I am a pirate.” He pondered on this for a moment. “Would you have?”
“I might have,” James said. He didn’t know. Hypothetical questions were always tricky, for you could never know what the correct answer was, for the event had not actually occurred. It was too much like maths, and he had always enjoyed literature more. Shakespeare had struck a chord in him, while numbers had never really done the trick, unless money was concerned. He liked to count the coins in his mother’s cabinet. “I thought you were bad, but you have better manners than all of the boys together,” he decided.
“That’s right, James… All too right.”
“You won’t hurt them, will you?” There was no real fear in his voice, for he trusted this man, even if he had been wary at first. Was that a stupid decision? Is that even for us to decide, and is that not merely James’s business? He is his mistakes, and we are not to amend them. Nor will I leave them out of the story, just because the little boy might have done something stupid. All little boys do, because that is what they are boys for.
The man smirked. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 
Satisfied with this answer, James pointed the crew to the exact spot where they needed to enter. He had his own tree, and as he was rather large, being the eldest of the company, his tree could fit a couple of the smaller grown men. A pirate named Bill entered the tree, and James could hear the shouts from where he was standing. He distinguished Sneezer’s voice, and then Blinky’s, and then he thought he heard Peter shout.
It didn’t take long before all the men were lined up before Teach, who was eyeing them in satisfaction. He had James’s shoulder in a strong grasp. James saw the betrayal in Peter’s eyes, but at this point, he had become immune to it. He recognised Pan as a boy who did not care about him even a bit, so he had decided to return the favour. It was different with the boys though. They pleaded where Pan was silent, and he felt sorry for them. They just followed Pan, and they didn’t know any better. They didn’t seem to know what world there was out there, and what different ways there were to live – how grown-ups lived their lives – while Pan seemed to have some knowledge on the matter, but chose to ignore it. He kept the boys naïve and stupid and ignorant, and in some sense it made James’s breath stick in his lungs. He suddenly remembered a line from the prayers at school. Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.  
“I want silence!” Teach shouted, and the coldness in his voice shocked James. “Pan,” he challenged his enemy antagonistically, pinching his cheek like all annoying adults do at some point.
“Blackbeard,” Pan spat back, and James started. He hadn’t realised that this man…
“Leave him alone!” Blinky shouted, as Teach pulled his knife and pressed it to Pan’s throat. With one simple movement Blackbeard fired his gun at the boy, and he lay motionless on the ground.
Tears sprang into James’s eyes. “You said you wouldn’t hurt any of them,” he said accusingly to Teach – the man he had thought to be his friend.
“Wrong,” the man answered. “I never said such a thing. I told you I wouldn’t dream of it – and I didn’t. I never did. I don’t dream up my life, little boy. I create it. I don’t need dreams to create my reality.”
The older man brought his face close to that of the younger boy.
“You need to stop dreaming, lad.”
At those words, James twisted the gun out of Blackbeard’s hand. Before the pirate could react, he was holding the gun up to Teach’s head, threatening to fire. He was not going to let this man kill his friends. That was not who he was, and that was not who he wanted to be.
“Go on then,” the pirate said, gruffly, a smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t believe for one second that the boy would shoot him. “Shoot me. Show a little gut.” He spit his words, and his eyes were gleaming threateningly in the darkness of the trees.
What do you believe?
“I don’t want to shoot you,” James said.
The pirate only laughed. “You’re a coward.”
“Do it!” Pan hissed.
“No!” Tears were threatening to spill and roll over James’s cheeks. “I don’t want to.”
“You do,” Pan said softly. “Of course you do. You wanted to fight the pirates, didn’t you?”
“I was curious – I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He didn’t notice he was really crying now. His father would have commented on his bad form.  
“You wanted to grow up, didn’t you?” Pan was mocking him. “This is growing up, as far as I know. Making decisions… owing up to your threats…” He pointed at the gun. “Being a man.”
“This is not a gentlemen’s life.” The pride that is left in our little hero. Astounding, isn’t it?
“Gentlemen don’t exist,” Pan said. “Not on Neverland – not anywhere. Good form, bad form – it’s all a lie, don’t you see? And if there is, you would be the worst of all. You betrayed your people, then you betrayed me, and now you will betray him.” Pan gestured at Blackbeard. “It’s simple… it was your dream to fight the pirates, wasn’t it? Then this is your chance.”
James pulled the trigger, hardly even realising he as doing it. He gasped audibly when the bullet hit Blackbeard’s chest, and the man fell to the ground. James kneeled next to him, trying to stem the bleeding, but the man stopped him. He put his bloodied hand to James’s chest, and whispered: “You will make a good pirate.” He blinked one more time, before his complexion became rigid.
Pan and the boys were shouting and cheering behind him. The other pirates had turned on their heels. Their captain was dead, and they were a disorganised bunch without him.
“You did it,” Pan said, remarkably laudatory to his standards. “You defeated the pirates!”
James remained silent.
“Come on.” Pan tried to drag him back to the house. “It’s over now; we’ll have a marvellous party, one like you’ve never seen.”
“No,” James said.
Pan frowned. “No?” He didn’t seem to understand, as he had never truly done.
“It’s a word grown-ups use.” James turned away, and he wasn’t to return.
They didn’t see each other for a long time after that, James and Pan. Years flew by, and of course, when they did meet, it didn’t go as smoothly as either of them expected. Peter Pan had always known somewhere in his the back of his mind that they would one day meet again, and James had planned to. Even though he forgot some things about Peter too, the hate in his heart festered and only grew over time.
Pan had learned from his encounter. He had finally realised that growing up wasn’t only a silly thing, but also a very dangerous thing. It had shifted their world from dream, from make-believe, to reality. It was what had made Blackbeard gruesome, and what would make James worse. He had never allowed any of the boys to grow up again. Not after James. James was his mistake, and sometimes even Peter wished to amend his mistakes.
James had learned too. But he had not learned for the better. He had taken Blackbeard’s crew, and soon found out he fitted in much better with them than with Pan. They taught him how to be ruthless, hard and cruel, while holding on to the correct poise and manners. It was a curious mix of brutality and civilisation, but James bore it well, as you might have suspected.
He had planned for Peter Pan’s death right from the beginning, of course, but he never seemed to get to it. Then again, what’s the fun in a story in which the bad guy wins? Because that is what our hero has become, hasn’t he? Is he truly the bad guy? He certainly doesn’t think so. Come on, you are allowed to disagree. You are allowed to dislike Peter, or even dislike the boys. As long as you don’t dislike any of the fairies. They haven’t done anything wrong, and if they have, it’s because of their limited capability to possess and express emotions. But that isn’t their fault, it’s who they are.
One night, on a night as cold as the one during which they first met, their shadows crossed. They didn’t speak, but their shades seemed to say enough.
You made me, James’s shadow seemed to whisper.
Pan’s merely laughed.
James wasn’t entirely wrong, of course. I think you might sympathise a little, even if I really want to make sure that James has strayed from the path that his parents set out for him when they raised him from a babe to a young man. He had some right to blame Peter for the person he turned out to be. Peter had taken him to Neverland, had then neglected him and left him to be found by the likes of Blackbeard, forcing him to grow up before his time.
But on the other hand, one can wonder if this adulthood hadn’t been James’s dream from the start, even if he didn’t really know what he was getting himself into when he stepped onto the ship that fatal night of 26 August 1786. In some ways, like Blackbeard, he had made himself as much as Pan had made him, and would make him in the future.
And make him Pan would. We will take one last glimpse at our two lost heroes, before I have to go. This is not their first new encounter, nor will it be their last.
James was holding one of the boys at the point of his sword, and Peter was watching him, his eyes mere splits. An angry boy look. “You won’t hurt him.”
James smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He raised his sword to render the boy in two, but Peter’s young body was faster. As you can see, Captain James has truly grown up to be a man, while Peter never considered such a thing. With one quick blow, Peter struck off the captain’s hand. Our hero was so angry at Peter that he forgot the pain, forgot the blood oozing out of the wound, dripping onto the deck and into the water.
“You insolent little boy!” he said in a posh accent. It is not an accent one can easily scream in.
Peter laughed. “You insolent little man!” He dangled the hand over the railing of the ship, dropping it into the ocean. Little did he know that under the waves a crocodile had been waiting for one of the ship’s current inhabitants to walk the plank. The crocodile was very slow – slower than all his friends – and found that in this way he could fill his appetite with a limited amount of effort. This crocodile exposed his sharp teeth and gormandised the hand at once. Now, if James didn’t know of this crocodile, he would soon, as the beast liked his taste and would not rest until he got the rest of the poor old captain.
This, perhaps, had been the captain’s undoing. In some ways, Peter Pan had always been his undoing. But then you have to consider the captain’s own choices, for which he now has to pay so dearly – look at the crocodile circling around the ship. Did he not just do what he had found so abhorrent all those years ago? Did he not keep the little boy at the tip of his sword with the intention to kill him? I know it is not a very satisfying story when I tell it like this, I understand that. Some of you might have turned your eyes away as I told you about James, James, who was only a pure and innocent child what seems like mere seconds ago. But he isn’t. not anymore. Over time, his good form turned to bad form, even if he may not have perceived it as such, and even if he still not does. Our hero, our captain, has lost himself, and lost himself irreversibly when he, in his heart, accepted that it was the right thing to attempt to skewer an innocent boy. It was what he had killed Blackbeard for, and what, in due time and with a little help of our green friend, will result in Captain Hook’s end as well.

[Ella]

Fandom: The 100
Summary: John Murphy/Emori, Bellamy Blake/John Murphy if you squint; Murphy has a choice to make. Character study around Murphy's decision to leave Polis with Emori in 4x01; Ontari is her own warning
Words: 666

I Will Run until My Feet No Longer Run No More

Murphy felt perplexed at the new weight in his hands. He studied the older man’s back as he walked away from him – his friend? He didn’t know what Bellamy was anymore, but he had just given him a gun. He had trusted him so easily, ever after all he had done.
Not that Bellamy was blameless, he tried to remind himself, but really, his former venom wasn’t in it anymore. They didn’t have any clue where he’d been these past months, and yet… This was more than just owing him. He could still feel Kane’s eyes burning on him, and he found his place against the wall, leaning against it as he let out a shallow breath.
They were still fighting a war they couldn’t win. They were up against the Ice Nation. His people never did anything halfway.
He felt a wave of nausea hit him, and Murphy had to fight the urge to drop the gun and run. He couldn’t do this. Bellamy trusted him now, but he still didn’t trust himself. He knew he wasn’t to be trusted, and he didn’t belong. In the end he would always choose himself, he would always choose Emori. Emori was the only one he really trusted, the only one he cared about enough to show that there was [i]something [/i]inside of him, something that years of pain and bitterness had almost flushed out of his system, but that was still there, hiding under the surface, waiting for the right person and the right time. He cared about Bellamy, maybe. There was something in the pit of his stomach as he thought about what he inevitably would do. He would fail him, he would fail all of them. He knew he couldn’t bear their hate again.
There was shouting in the distance, words in a strange tongue he had heard before but had never been able to decipher. Words Ontari had whispered in his ear when he––
Don’t go there.
Don’t think about her hands on your broken skin. Don’t think about her threats. Don’t think about her eyes, burning through you at every touch. Don’t think about the chain around your neck.
Don’t think about the noose.
Murphy closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. They would still reminded him of what happened, both the Ice Nation and his own people. His nails dug into his skin and he didn’t care that he was drawing blood, he felt so terribly weak for still feeling this way, for still being scared––
He knew he had nothing to fear, not anymore, but it was too much. John Murphy didn’t do responsibility and John Murphy didn’t do forgiveness.
“I’m sorry, Bellamy,” he said to thin air as he turned around and walked away from the battle lines, away from the ones he realised he had called his people, probably for the first time since they landed. For the first time, too, he found himself longing that they were really his people. That he could belong, that he could feel safe with them.
A smile played around his lips. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t supposed to care. Not about any of them, and certainly not about Bellamy. It wasn’t a survivor’s move. They’d drop him as soon as he’d outrun his use, as people had always done, as he had done before.
If you want to help…
John Murphy doesn’t help others, he only helps himself.
Keep telling yourself that and you might just believe it.
He remembered his hand in Ontari’s chest. He didn’t do that for himself.
Emori…
“What is it?”
“Do you remember what I said about being safe with my people?” He looked over his shoulder, where they were risking their lives for the so-called greater good, a good which he had yet to see. A good which had never been good to him, and which he had never helped achieve. A good which he was not sure he could ever discover. “Your plan was better.” 

[Ella]

Fandom: The Shining
Summary: Jack Torrance discovers what love means. Character study.
Words: 1274

Love, n1

My friend, Al Shockley, has this room full of books. He keeps it locked, even though he admitted to me that if people wanted to steal from him, his books were probably the last thing they’d go for. He has a radio, a modern television, jewellery, and unlike most teachers I know, a multiple filled bank accounts. I didn’t even know about the Hotel back then. I didn’t know about the stocks, I didn’t know about all the precious secrets he didn’t tell me about. Back then, I only knew about the shitload of money we drank away, and I frankly didn’t care. I didn’t ask.
            “Most of them are old, anyway,” he said. “Falling apart. No one would ever have anything to gain from them, but I thought you might appreciate them.”
            I wanted to tell them that of course there was something to gain from them. I wanted to tell him how words were the most powerful weapons in the world. How a sharp pen – but I didn’t even believe it myself anymore. I didn’t want to. I hadn’t published a story in years and began to suspect that any power I had might have dried up.
            Al stood with his arms wide open, a tsar from the old days ruling over his lands, over me. “How do you like it?”
            “It’s a lot of junk.” I didn’t mean that. I probably didn’t show it either. I ran my fingers over an old edition of the Iliad and no, I wasn’t envious, not really. I had never been envious of Al or of his money. I clenched my fist.
            Al laughed and agreed with me. “I might get rid of it all. I was thinking about moving. I’m alone now, so there’s no use in prancing around in this empty castle.”
            He wouldn’t move. He didn’t. He liked prancing, and he liked showing off. Wife or no wife, I don’t think it mattered to him much.
            I could describe the shelves, running from the one side of the room to the other, almost meeting the glass of the window, as if they were staring outside, as if they possessed the freedom to leave the room an moment and live a life of their own. I could describe the soft carpet under my socks, or the tabs sticking out between some of the books, mentioning authors I had read and authors I avoided, subjects I didn’t care for and ones I had devoured. But I won’t. I’ll describe to you what I found in that room. A realisation. Probably one of the most important discoveries of my life.
            The big book with the black cover attracted me, its leather felt old under my fingers. I took it from the shelf and ran my fingers over it, one by one, as if by feeling it, I would somehow get to know its contents and understand where it came from.
            “It’s a part of the Oxford English Dictionary,” Al said, uninterested. “Never bothered with the whole collection.”
            His casualness annoyed me, and I opened the dictionary on a random page.
            “Give me a word,” Al said, his laughing face filling the room.
            “A feeling or disposition of deep affection or fondness for someone, typically arising from a recognition of attractive qualities, from natural affinity, or from sympathy and manifesting itself in concern for the other’s welfare and pleasure in his or her presence. With of, for, to, towards.”
            Al just laughed. It was then that I found out it was not a word he understood either.
            The man standing in front of me just stares. He’s not a talker, but his drinks are good. “Don’t you like my story, Lloyd?” I ask. “Isn’t it good?”
            “It was most certainly amusing, Mr. Torrance.” He doesn’t offer a smile. He polishes the glass.
            “He understands. I understand,” a man next to me says.
            I’ve seen him before, and his name has buried itself in the tip of my tongue. “Grady, my good friend,” I greet him, after a second-too-long pause.
            “And so do you. It’s not that hard to wrap your head around, is it?”
            I purse my lips together. “I’ve said it many times of course. To my wife. My son. And I think I meant it. I was just never sure – I never knew if it was enough. There has always been something missing, if you know what I mean?”
            (“I love you, Daddy. I been waiting.”
            “I love you too, Dan.”)
            Grady looks at me, expectantly.
            “As if every time I said it, there was something unreal about it. As if my words meant less than theirs.” I drown my tequila. “I’m probably not making a lot of sense.”
            “You are. I felt the same about my wife and children.”
            I look up at him, curiously. “But you just said you understand it.”
            “The Overlook Hotel made me see it for the first time, clearly. My family didn’t understand, in much the same way that yours doesn’t. You’re the caretaker, Mr. Torrance. And that is what it means.”
            (concern for other’s welfare)
            I see clearly.
            “You love the Hotel – don’t you, Mr. Torrance?”
            “Yes.” I smile into my drink – where did it come from? Lloyd understood me before I understood myself, as usual. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. “Yes, I love the Hotel.”
            (Something nagging in the back of my mind. Take your medicine.)
            I frown. “But I’m supposed to love my wife, my child. Am I not supposed to love them more? Fatherly love, isn’t that a thing?”
            Grady doesn’t smile. “Mothers love. Fathers have the responsibility to make sure their families stay in line. Which, if I may be so bold to remind you, is not the current state of your family. You have to do your fatherly duty by them, Mr. Torrance. Just like I did. My wife and twins didn’t care much for the Hotel either, but in the end I made them see. Just like you will make them see.”
            (Blood on the carpet, a room with four bodies.)
            “Your dictionary will help you, sir.” Grady hands me a large book, similar to the one I held at Al’s.
            “Mother-love, noun,” I read. “A. Love for one’s mother. B. Maternal love. Father-love…” I flip through the pages. No entry.
            “You see now, Mr. Torrance. Love is not what you have to offer, nor what you should offer. You should hold the power, like your own father did. And you turned out fine, didn’t you?”
            “Yes,” I answer before my brain catches up.
            (Take your medicine.)
            The lights go out, and I don’t remember. I recognise quickly that I’m on the third floor. My head hurts, and blood is coating my hands. My body is trembling and I suddenly realise what I happening, too quickly, too fast. My head hurts.
            “Go on and hit me. But you’ll never get what you want from me,” a thin voice says.
            (Come here and take your medicine like a man.)
            I startle at the sound of my own voice where my father’s used to be. I am aware of how my hands open, as if I had forgotten how to feel. I drop something and it falls on the rug. Thump.
            (concern for other’s welfare)
            My eyes widen slightly, and recognise the tiny boy standing in front of my. I feel. Grady was wrong. I didn’t understand, but I understand now.
            He doesn’t run. Why the hell doesn’t he run?
            (This inhuman place makes inhuman monsters.)
            “Doc,” I said. “Run away. Quick. And remember how much I love you.”

[Ella]

Fandom: The Shining
Summary: When you encounter something you can’t comprehend to exist, there are two possibilities: you have lost your mind and are seeing things that aren’t truly there, or everything you previously believed was wrong.
Words: 762

He Knew How to Play Elevator

            The first time that Jack had felt like he was, as Danny would put it, ‘losing his marbles’, was that time with the two-way radio. He had never believed in ghosts, who they were interesting in a literary sense at most, and despite Al’s frequent insistence that really, he would enjoy it, Jack had never been tempted to enter the realm of found footage films. His wife was the one who loved ghost stories, who saved his scarce collection of Poe and Lovecraft from gathering dust. The only ghosts he believed in were the ones he had buried. His father was never one of them. His father was a ghost he had cut out of him. A ghost who was dead, in his grave, and not in him at all. A ghost who didn’t exist anymore.
            Then that ghost had started talking, screaming at him from the radio, working its way through him from the old clocksprings and tubes. He raised his hands over his ears and expected to fall to his knees, to roll up on the ground in a foetal position, but he found himself standing there, unmoving, with his eyes closed as the voice rang in his ears.
            “—kill him. You have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too.”
            Jack raised the radio up, brought it down, and it smashed on the floor. His father’s voice was gone, but someone was still screaming, still hurting his ears with shrill crying.
            “—dead, you’re dead, you’re dead!”
            His wife entered the room, and all that was left was the shattered radio and a booming headache. He told her it was a dream. An unnerving dream, but a dream nonetheless. He told himself the same, because the alternative was unfathomable. It was not right that his father should come back, creeping through this hotel two thousand miles from the New England town where he had lived and died. It just couldn’t be. He didn’t believe in ghosts.
            He remembered the lectures in his college days, John Clarke’s endless talks about ‘the unknown’ in Gothic fiction. When you encounter something you can’t comprehend to exist, there are two possibilities: you have lost your mind and are seeing things that aren’t truly there, or everything you previously believed was wrong.
            “Both are equally terrifying,” Clarke used to add, and Jack used to agree.
            Now he realised it wasn’t all that simple. He was too stubborn to change his view of the world – he had seen his father be lowered in his grave, he had seen that empty bag of skin in the coffin. Perhaps he was insane, even though he doubted it. He knew his wife feared that he was losing it, to put it mildly. She was wary when they went to bed, and he felt her looking at his back as he attempted to catch his sleep on the too-soft mattress. Every time he took a shower, he could feel her eyes on the door, as if she was afraid of what he would transform into under the influence of the lukewarm water. As if he would return a monster. He could see it written on Wendy’s face, clearly, the words almost escaping her trembling lips on several occasions. But even though she constantly looked as if she might have cried her thoughts out loud, the silence always held.
            The third, new option (the option that had creeped into his mind ever since the incident with the radio, that had been on his mind when he saw Danny’s bruises, when he saw the dead woman, when he worked on his play, when he craved a drink or when he wished Wendy would just shut up or he might actually take that breadknife and simply) he judged much less simple, and much more terrifying. No physical ghost, and no imagination either. The third option was that his father hadn’t been in of the hotel at all. He hadn’t been in the radio. He hadn’t left his grave in their hometown, he had just never entered it.
            (Have a drink, Jacky my boy, and we’ll play the elevator game. Then I’ll go with you while you give him his medicine. I know you can do it, of course you can. You must kill him. You have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist must suffer. Because each man—)
            The third option was that his father (miserable, bullying drunk that he had been) remained inside of him, buried after all. An animal caught in a snare. Well, perhaps that was insanity.

[Ella]

Fandom: Case Histories
Summary: Some words are hard to say. Post-When Will There Be Good News?
Words: 827

Not Today

Jackson could nearly feel the people staring at him. Or at least he would, if he wasn't so busy feeling like crap. He had to move. Come on, feet. They wouldn't, of course. Who would ever listen to him? He wouldn't.
He was standing at the train station. King's Cross, the same station where he had meant to arrive that one time, but when he never reached his destination. Not that he would ever have arrived in London onthat train. Right now he was trying to get out. He didn't even know where he would go. Perhaps he'd just get out at the next stop. He had to try. This whole thing made him feel weak, and he didn't like feeling weak. He wasn't week. He had been in the army, he had been a policeman, he had been a private detective. A train crash wasn't going to crush him to bits. He'd been through worse.
The train would arrive in ten minutes. He didn't even check where it was going. He didn't care. He had nowhere to go. No-one. Perhaps he shouldn't go anywhere at all. Perhaps no-one should. Perhaps it was time to let the coincidences take over. He had always said that coincidences were explanations waiting to happen. Well, perhaps they were, but what if the explanations never happened? What if they just got neglected, left on the doorstep, with nobody to care about them? They would simply stay coincidences. Some things in the world were inexplicable for human beings. Perhaps it was better that way. Perhaps it was better if the coincidences would just stay coincidences.
Five minutes. He would feel his breath grow tighter in his chest. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready by far. He had to get on the train. Not to get home this time. No, he didn't have it.
He wasn't even sure if he really missed it. It had been good, of course, but it hadn't been real. How would you miss something that wasn't real? Someone?
Four. It's amazing how slow time can tick away when you're miserable.
He could go to Louise.
Three.
Of course he couldn't. That was ridiculous. He couldn't even tell if they were just acting like they had been friends once, or if they actually had been. What was left of it now? They were both married. He had been married twice. She was still married, for that matter. Perfect little husband. Perfect life. Why should he interrupt? Why would he do that to her.
Simple words. Three simple words. You've spoken them before, why not speak them now?
Two. It was coming too close. He couldn't stand it anymore. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run, except he didn't feel physically up to it.
He didn't miss her, he didn't, really. But he missed a home. Having a home. Having some place to come back to. Some place to just lay down your head, and feel safe. Content, even. He hadn't felt that good being somewhere for a long time, and now it was all gone, once and for all. Perhaps he'd never find it. Perhaps he wasn't meant to. Not made for contentment.
One. The trick is breathing. Or something along the lines.
Perhaps he was just an idiot.
People were always trying to get home, even when there was no home to go to. Even when they were trying to escape, they were just looking for a different home. With someone else, somewhere else. He also knew how some people never found it.
I love you.
It felt as if his heart stopped. He had to sit himself down. There were so many people. There always were in London, of course, but he felt as if he'd never been so aware of it. Everyone, just trying to get home. People were getting out of the train and in of the train. He tried to force himself up, but he couldn't. His vision blurred and he felt nauseous. This shouldn't happen again. He had come so far.
The train was gone. He could feel the blood pumping through his head, the black spots disappearing. Some woman was staring at him disapprovingly, but right now he couldn't care less.
He sat there. He watches train after train go by, until he couldn't stand it anymore. He got up and walked the stairs. Too fast. His head was going to explode if he took one more step, and he had to hold on to the wall in order to keep his balance.
"Are you alright?" a little voice asked. It could have been his daughter. Or Reggie. The blue eyes stared at him curiously.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he replied as he managed a smile. The girl seemed content and ran after her mother, who was obviously thinking he was some kind of pervert.
He took one last look before he walked out into the rain.
Not today.

[Ella]

Fandom: -
Summary: for a prompt on Dreuzels, title stolen from John Milton
Words: 746

What hath night to do with sleep?

            When I look sideways, I see the same closet I have seen for eleven years. Nothing has changed since the start of my marriage. The curtains, the carpet. They bear the marks of time, but nothing more. I can almost feel his gentle breathing on my skin, and the presence of another human being is leaving its mark – if not on the room, then at least on me. For the first time in those eleven years, I feel as if I may never have to be alone again.
            I laugh, and realise immediately I am probably a horrible person. I’m sure Mrs Mary Goodwin, my neighbour, thinks so anyway. Our paths cross every morning as I make my way to work. She glances downwards and huddles her children past me, and I just know.
            She doesn’t seem to grasp how different our lives are, how different we are. She is nothing short of thrilled about being the happy housewife. Sure, she’s got a job, but she’s also got two very nice little rosy-cheeked kids, and not to mention a husband whose eyesight is way too crappy to go to war. For the first time I’m glad I don’t have any kids. Any kid of mine would be cursed with the same stares I get. The stares for the woman who is sleeping with an officer while her husband is off to war. In his own home. Surely, there can’t be any excuse to do something so horrible.
            Perhaps there can’t be. Perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps this is why I can’t sleep at night, why I lie awake and turn over again and again, contemplating the furniture and especially that horrible lamp my father-in-law gave me and Daniel for our anniversary. I am in the fault, after all. I am unfaithful. I know he has never slept with another woman. Not because he loves me – such silly notions were left behind on the altar – but because he lacks the imagination, possibly the courage. He has this orthodox sense of morality, and even if he’d ever found out about this, about me, about the man breathing unbearably loudly in his bed, he’d probably forgive me in the end. He always does. He’s a forgiving and loving husband, and I’m the free-spirited social butterfly. I need to be corrected, my skirts need to be longer, my back needs to be straighter, and I certainly shouldn’t want as much independence as I do. As I have. I shouldn’t have a job while he got fired. I shouldn’t take the car every day. It isn’t mine.
            Now that he’s gone, it is. The morning he left, I took it out and drove all the way to Dover, just because I could. He wasn’t stopping me. If I wanted to, I could take the car out again tomorrow, and the day after. I could go to the lake and dive into the deep. I could do it naked, in the middle of the night, my hair loose, dancing in the light of the full moon. My only obligation is my job at the MTC. It’s much better than factory work, and I’m actually able to do the thing I love most, and the thing my husband disapproves of most, for a reasonable salary: driving.
            Next to me, under the sheets, a body stirs.
            “Cathy?”
            Andrew likes to pronounce my name that way. My husband always calls me Cath, or Catherine when he’s angry. So does my father. As long as Andrew doesn’t, it’s all fine. Cathy isn’t who my husband will return to, if he will ever return. Cathy is different, she’s elsewhere. She is the woman I have put away for years, stuffed into the back of the closet between the boxes in which I stored my childhood. She’s the woman who occasionally tells Daniel that I want a life, and that I do not simply exist to cook him dinner and iron his clothes. She is the bird let out of a cage, and when this all is over, she’ll be stuffed back in. When my husband returns, everything will go back to normal. Mary’s stares will make sure of that, as does the wedding ring Andy never bothers to take off.
            He whispers my name again, and I answer him with a soft kiss on his stubble. More and more often I find myself wishing that the war will never find its end – or worse, that my husband will.

[Ella]

Fandom: literature? Maybe? 
Summary: written for the prompt 'portals'; crackfic
Words: 1536

All Magic Comes With A Price

                “I like the look of this not.” Bill looked at the object filled with disdain.
                Kit was holding the feather up with a childish admiration in his eyes. “‘Tis magic, my friend.”
                William Shakespeare snorted. “Thou knowest as well as I do that magic does not exist.” He regretted his words as he saw the look on his friend’s face. It was like telling someone who is really passionate about Christmas that it is a feast only enjoyed by the capitalist pigs of this world. Bill frowned. He didn’t understand where that thought had come from. Capitalism wasn’t a word he had encountered before, not in fiction and not on the streets of Britain’s capital. His eyes found the golden feather Kit was holding in his delicate hands, and he found himself drawn to its softness, its feathery-light touch. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
                “Not all amongst us are sceptics,” Kit said, an air of superiority drawling from his voice.
                Bill rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help himself asking: “What doest thou think is its power?”
                Kit smiled. He could see from the glint in his friend’s eyes that the feather had captured his curiosity after all. “I know not.” He held the feather out to his friend, and the moment Bill touched it, Kit could feel himself being lifted off the floor. It was as if the world was disappearing from around them, as if the colours were fading and coming back into focus. He wanted to throw up.
                Then as soon as it had started it was over. He felt his two feet firmly on the tiles.
                “Kit, my dear fellow, look at that!”
                As Kit looked around him, he saw a beautiful sign saying ‘Shakespeare and Company’. “Hast thou seen this in earlier times?”
                Bill shook his head. “‘Tis new to me, jolly.” He was awfully pleased to see his name in golden letters.
                “This is France,” Kit said. His friend looked at him with a frown on his face, but Kit merely pointed at the guy with glasses and a moustache crossing the street, ten baguettes in his arms. “This must be France.”
                “Monsieur! Monsieur!”
                Kit held his breath as Bill crossed the street without looking, almost getting hit by – what was that even? The wagons made such horrid sounds.
                “Cannest you mir s’il vous plaît raconter où nous sommes?”
                “You’re in Paris, you silly man.”
                “Paris?” Bill was almost screaming. “Excuse me, sir, but you soundest not very French.”
                “That is because he is not French,” Kit said, having caught up with his friend without endangering his life. “I do detect the hint of a Dublin accent, is it not?”
                The man smiled. “You’re correct, my friend.” He extended a hand. “The name is James Joyce.”
                Bill was ready to extend a hand, but Kit stopped him before he could speak his own name.
                “We’re… um… Bert and…” He nodded vigorously to his friend, who still seemed clueless as to what had happened.
                “Will –”
                “Ernie, this is my friend Ernie. May I inquire as to what year it currently is?” He saw Bill opening his mouth to speak and closing it again, a faint realisation finally dawning upon the man’s thick skull.
                James frowned. “It’s the year 1922.” He seemed keen to get away now, confused by the strange question the men posed him. “I’m sorry, I have to go now… I have to… er… feed the dog.” He gestured to the ten baguettes he was still awkwardly holding.
                “You hate dogs,” Kit said, and he was unsure why. The feather glowed in his hand.
                “Goodbye.”
                “The feather is a portal to the future?” Bill asked, his eyes wide.
                “Evidently.”
                “Cool.”
                “Please use words I understand.”
                “Excellent good.”
                “Better.” Kit frowned. “What do we do now?”
                The other’s eyes glinted. “Let’s see where we go next.”
                “Bill, I appreciate the feather’s magical powers; however, I am certain we should be careful…”
                “Feather, bring us to 1949.”
                Kit sighed. If he had learned anything from writing Dr. Faustus this year (no, he had to remind himself, it was not 1592 anymore), it was that all magic comes with a price.
                They landed in a familiar place. London. But not London as they knew it. Kit had never seen this part of the city before in his life, even though he recognised the street name. It looked as if the city had been ripped apart and was put back together again. “Sir, what is the year?” he asked the first man who didn’t look completely hostile to him.
                “1984,” the man muttered. “It’s always 1984.”
                “Looks like your magical feather failed to work that well this time, does it not?” Bill said jovially.
                Kit shrugged. “I warned you that –”
                “Magical feather thing, please bringest us to 1986.”
                Kit buried this head in his hands, and still had his eyes covered when they arrived at their new destination. They were sitting in comfortable seats, and there was a large screen in front of them.
                “Is this a theatre? Are we seeing a play? Oh, Kit, this is the real deal.”
                “I don’t think –”
                A deep manly voice started singing as the screen suddenly showed images. The two men were taken aback by the bright colours and the moving pictures.
                “This is magic,” Bill said as he inhaled sharply, watching red roses and a white picket fence appear on the large screen. “This can’t be.”
                “Shut up and watch the film, f**kers,” a man yelled at them.
                “I want to go,” Kit whispered as he saw a severed ear appear on screen. He grabbed the feather with a newfound terror, the words ‘She wore blue velvet’ haunting his mind.
                It was easy to guess where they landed next, a newspaper laid out on a coffee table pronouncing it was the year 1990.
                “I don’t feel good about this, Bill. We should go back. What if we get stuck and can’t actually go back.”
                “Don’t worry, Kit.” Bill slapped him on the back. “It will be fine.”
                “Did you see what I just saw? That isn’t normal.”
                “It’s the future.”
                “Maybe I don’t want the future.”          
                A door slammed open. “Who is there? What are you doing in my house?” A man with a paper bag over his head appeared, holding a shotgun in his hands. “Who are you?”
                “Bert and Ernie?” Kit tried.
                “Oh, you’re fucking hilarious,” the man sneered. “What are you doing in my house? Have you found out what I look like? Have you found pictures? I swear, if you’ve found pictures… I have a reputation to uphold.”
                “Who are you, then?” Bill frowned.
                The man laughed. “I’m Thomas Pynchon, but you knew that, didn’t you, you little shit!”
                “Nice to have met you, Mr. Pynchon,” Bill said, as he grabbed onto the feather and Kit’s arm, leaving a flabbergasted Thomas Pynchon staring into thin air, wondering if there was a word in the dictionary for the strange event that had just happened before his eyes. He put the shotgun down, sat down in his armchair and smiled. If there wasn’t, he got to make up another word, which was always exciting.
                Meanwhile, Kit and Bill found themselves in London once again, a completely changed world since they last saw it.
                “Oh, a book signing!” Bill yelled, and he dragged Kit with him into the shop. The bookshop was just as huge on the inside as it had looked on the outside, and they found a huge line of people. “I wonder what great author we will find here.”
                “We should go home, Bill.” Kit was getting nervous. He knew that something was bound to go wrong at some point. “I don’t want to be in the future. What are all these people even doing?” He gestured to a woman in front of them, who was tapping on a sort of square-looking device.
                “Oh, it’s candy crush,” the woman said. “Have you tried it yet?”
                The two men were too bedazzled to answer.
                The woman shrugged – “Whatever.” – and put two things back into her ears.
                “I want to go, Bill.”
                “Come on, this might be fun.”
                “You don’t even know what this is!”
                 Another woman started laughing nervously. “It’s a book signing.”
                “For which book? What year?”
                “Um, 2011…” she said. “It’s for Fifty Shades of Grey. E.L. James.”
                Bill and Kit looked at each other. They had entered a new millennium.
                “Sounds sophisticated.”
                “What is it about?” Kit asked, and he wished he hadn’t.
                The two men found themselves fleeing away from the shop, only to find themselves surrounded by hundreds of people, and even louder mechanical carriages.
                “1592! PLEASE BRING US TO 1592!”       
                They landed on the carpet of Kit’s living room with a soft ‘thump’.
                Bill laughed. “Okay, I’ll give it to you – that magic is real, man.”
                Kit looked simply horrified. “I’m not even sure I want magic anymore.” He didn’t want any of it. He wanted his Early Modern English dialect back. 
                “Hey, I see you took a souvenir!” Bill grabbed Fifty Shades from his friend’s lap, dangling it in front of Kit’s face.
                Kit groaned. He knew magic would come with a price.

[Ella]

Fandom: - 
Summary: written for creative writing course, focus on dialogue
Words: 859

A Happy Family

            “Can’t you tell that little shit to stop calling you?”
            “That little shit is my son, Alex, so that would be a no.” He had to remind himself how Alex had even convinced him to come with him in the first place. Bloody guilt-tripper. Covered in snow, the graveyard was even less attractive than usual. Cynthia Dornann’s grave was one of the few at the far end of the churchyard which hadn’t been cleared out yet. The silver lettering carved into the matt black stone had faded to a faint grey, recalling some words from Matthew about eternal life. John had never known Cyn to be religious, but then again he had also spelled her surname wrong for the past sixteen years.
            “Why not? If my kid was calling me all hours of the day I’d kick his ass,” spat the boy, who was sitting to his right, his fingers clenched around the edge of wooden bench they’d been sitting on for the past twenty-seven minutes.
            John sighed. “He’s seven years old, and you’re telling me to kick his ass? I’m glad you don’t have a child yet.” He did at that age. “Besides, I’m not that busy, am I?”
            “Right you aren’t. Can’t your wife take care of him for like two hours?”
            “She is taking care of him,” he said. He didn’t mind the phone calls, and he stared at the lock screen of his cell. Twenty-eight. Don’t look at the stone. John felt certain some god was judging him for giving Teddy his phone number with the explicit instruction to call him if he needed anything. The little boy was home sick and it wasn’t as if his mum didn’t have work to do. Someone had to take care of him. “I like the stone.”
            “When was the last time you came here?” There was an accusation in those brown eyes. He didn’t inherit those from his mother, unlike his short black hair and the subtle freckles on his nose.
            “Fuck, Alex, I hardly knew her, you know that as well as I do. Did you ask me to come here just to make me feel like an asshole, or what?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, and was glad to be interrupted by the Totally Spies theme song (Teddy’s idea). “Sorry, gotta pick this one up.”
            “Course.” Alex gritted his teeth, breaking anything close to eye contact they may have had in the past twenty-nine minutes.
            “You won’t – hey Teddy, how’s it going? Is mum with you?”
            “Of course she’s with him, don’t think she’s gonna leave your poor little seven-year-old alone unattended for a single fucking second, right?”
            “Don’t swear, Alex.”
            “Pots and kettles.”
            “I’ll be home in an hour, Teddy bear, give mummy a kiss from me.”
            “I want to puke.”
            “Then do so – yeah, you’ll get a story when I get back. Be good.”
            “That was the fourth time.”
            “I know.”
            “Couldn’t you just put it off?”
            “Why?”
            “It’s not as if he’s gonna tell you anything important. He’s seven years old.”
            “Exactly,” John said. “He’s seven years old, everything he says is important.”
            Alex scoffed. He stood up from the bench, kneeling down in front of the grave and placing a bouquet of white roses in front of the stone. “You know it would’ve been her birthday today, right?”
            The date was the first thing he spotted when he sat down thirty minutes ago. It explained Alex’s tie. He wondered who’d taught him the double Windsor. “Yeah.”
            “Did you, really?”
            “Stone says so.”
            “You fucking prick.”
            “I didn’t know her very well, haven’t I told you that a million times by now?”
            “Haven’t you told your precious little Teddy a million times what time you’ll be home?”
            “That’s not the same.”
            “Sure isn’t,” Alex sneered. “I know you didn’t know her very well. You didn’t know her at all.”
            “So –”
            “But you don’t have to be a prick about it. It’s my mum lying there. And it’s her birthday.”
            John looked down at his hands. Thirty-two minutes. Alex was right. He was being a prick. “You brought nice flowers, I’m sure she would have liked them.” He had no idea and seeing the way Alex shook his head, the kid knew it too.
            “Here we go, here we go-o-o-o.”
            “If it’s that kid again, I’ll swear I’m going to strangle him in his sleep.”
            “Pretty sure that’ll land you in some kind of juvenile prison.” John pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey Teddy bear.” Alex doesn’t turn around, but he can see his shoulders tensing. “I’m a little busy right now. Your mum can take care of that, and I’ll be home before you know it, okay? Love you.” He rose to join Alex’s attempt to stare the stone away.
            “Dad?”
            “Yeah?”
            “I called you yesterday. You didn’t pick up.”
            John put his phone in his pocket and sat down next to Alex, in front of the stone. His ass was freezing and he could feel the snow melting underneath it soaking his underpants. “Happy now?”
            Alex smirked. “It’s a start.”

[Ella]

Fandom: -
Summary: Dit was voor een 'literary imitation' opdracht, eveneens Creative Writing. Ik probeerde hier de schrijfstijl van Thomas Pynchon te imiteren (maar het is misschien een beetje James Joyce, oops).
Words: 406


Von Stauffenberg moves between the bodies, keeping his clouded head empty. He snuffs out his cigarette, knowing it will not be appreciated, and thinks it will not do in a wooden conference room, damp and stuffy like the trees circling its layout, fixing his gaze on the small man hunched over the Eastern Front, his hand clammy. Von Tresckow’s hell. About twenty staff officers are gathered around the table as if in solemn prayer. Earlier than planned: five and a half by twelve meter room, oak table lined by similar-minded windows, wide open on the other side of the table to drive out the early afternoon heat. . . .
He has to get closer to God. Not the right bunker, not the right time. This won’t do at all. Heusinger’s voice shrill in the open space. His companions are not there as the chief operations officer, his thin hair sticking to his strawberry skin, catches his eye with unasked questions –
Does he. . . ? No. He wants a full report before hearing his expert opinion. Brandt next to him, his face grim and serious, fiddling with a loose thread of his trousers. Not unkind. Might die today.
He allows his hand to trace the leather handle of the briefcase and slides it down under the table, close to the feet. Hope this one works. Stieff can be trusted, can he? The acid is digesting the last fibres. . . . make an excuse . . telephone call . . .
Hope Fellgiebell will make one. Meets his eye as he rushes past the SS checkpoint without any difficulty. He has the right papers. The sun is rising in the sky. Minutes turn into seconds. Von Haeften is waiting in his car, the beast already groaning with anticipation. His face is sweaty and he fears his glass eye will fall out. It won’t.
Yes. Yes: this is it. He hears the explosion, silence hits his ears and seconds turn into fire, he steps into the started car, grey hard tyres on the dented road.
He looks at his watch, a worn specimen with faded inking on the dial. Nina’s name engraved on the back, pressing her mark into the skin of his wrist. Her lips on his split ones, her rosy lipstick seeping into the cracks and leaving her imprint on him. . . to keep him safe.
12.42. Der Führer Adolf Hitler ist tot! –