Tep, you do realise that I'm not suggesting that there's anything deliberate about the orchestration? Or anything bad?

Oh, Lord yes! I was trying to be teasing, but electrons are so very bad at conveying tone of voice sometimes.

I seem to be in fairy tale mode again.

Fateful Encounters, #2

In the twilight outside the rough cottage, the crone’s face was shadowed, crags and valleys offset by eyes that still gleamed with purpose.

“Hungry, my dear?” She held an apple, ripe and lush, in one gnarled hand.

I could taste its juice on my tongue already. I had walked farther than I intended, and I’d had no water since noon. What harm could come of sharing the old woman’s bounty, when she was kind enough to offer? Something dark in me shuddered to touch her, but I would not be discourteous.

“Thank you,” I said, and held out my hand. ---

Deb, the first one was from a fairy tale, too, but it might have been too oblique for anyone to get the reference.

Forgive me some abuse of the drabble concept. I wrote this for another form and I'm still debating my own meaningful encounters.

. I only notice dthe young man out of the corner of my eye. I’m ashamed to say after I got to know him, I replayed that scene a few times so I could get a better view, from the front and the back. But at the time, I’m speaking of, I thought he was the temp. “We’re just about finished,” I said. “Feel free to come in and get your lunch.”

We had our meetings in the break room, first out of necessity and later because I preferred it to the heavy imposing furniture in the conference room, even though the conference room had a print of “Water Lillies” hanging overhead.

“Dr. Allyson Miller?”

“Yeah, I’m Allyson Miller. But I’m not a doctor. Just a social worker. And, you are?” I tried to keep my inquiring shrink tone, but my detective side was giving him quite a stare, I was sure of it.

Suspect is mid-to-late thirties, male cauc, with big hazel eyes I’d like to get lost in for about six years. And it knows my name. My God. But me, a doctor, bite your tongue. Or better yet, bite mine, but only gently.

”Well, I heard this was a therapy group, so I assumed...”

“No, actually, we’re more about peer support here, but you could read that in the newsletter. What really brings you here?” For a second, I fantasized, imagining him saying “I’m here to be your love slave, Ms. Miller.” At which point, I’d say “Call me Allyson, please. But never Ally. I hate that.”

“It’s about my sister.”

“Call me Allyson, please.”

“What?” His eyebrows made an attractive curve of his confusion.

“Sorry. Long day. What?”

“My sister is...well, she uses a cane. You kind of remind me of her just a little.”

“We all look alike, right? Well, my friend Nick Rossi runs a family members’ group on Thursday evenings. You could try that. My group isn’t accepting new members right now. And we’ve only ever had a few men anyway. Don’t take this wrong but you guys tend to inhibit discussion.” Especially if the group leader starts to drool and stuff.

Smoothly played, Allyson, I told myself. Very feminist and professional. You don’t need to start thinking of his perfect mouth and all the places on you it would fit perfectly...what’s that about? You don’t get turned on this fast. Sure, you flirted with that bagel guy in grad school, but not when you first met, for God’s sake. This is high school shit, right here. And you were pretty stupid in high school. Remember? An excited young voice somewhere inside me said “Yeah!” and I tried to send it “shut up!” thoughtwaves.I could’ve just sort of rolled down the hallway and out of this guy’s life though, and I didn’t do that, either. “I’m sorry,” I said, instead. “Have a seat....I don’t think, you know...brought my own.” And if my lame joke wasn’t bad enough, I cringed at the girly chuckle.

Jesus, gimp humor already. And it’s not even the second date. I must really want to jump this guy’s bones. But that just illustrates why my success rate’s gotten so low since I’ve stopped trying...chemically enhanced. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“No, it’s not the group I want. It’s you.” I swear it was completely physiological that my nipples decided to salute the flag at that precise moment, even under my Healing Professional get-up. “I’m not following,” And for a moment my confusion did keep the pheromones at bay. “I’ve just been to see Tommy Mallory. The P.I.? He says maybe you can help us out...that this job might require another...” “Cripple.” The word sounded flat, ugly in a way it hadn’t in years.It was hard to believe I threw it around so much, thought it was funny or ironic. “You know, Tommy is like an uncle to me. If I find out you’re playing some game with me, I might ask him to blow your head off. Or something you might miss.”.

Heh. erika has already had my full take and commentary on this one, when firsty written.

BTW, as of five minutes ago:

Famous Flower of Serving Men: Amazon.com Sales Rank in Books: #13,579

Weaver and the factory Maid: Amazon.com Sales Rank in Books: #17,816

It won't last, of course, but for the moment?

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAW!

Wooot! Go, Deb!

Fateful Encounter, #3

Was she truly asleep? It seemed impossible, but enchantments were known to be powerful things.

He leaned down to trace the smooth curve of one cheek with his thumb. Cool, still. Yet a pulse fluttered in her throat, proof of life. If he pressed his palm to her breast, he would find her heartbeat, steadily ticking away each moment she dreamed.

Her lips were pale rose—untouched, he knew. Like petals, newly unfurled, softest velvet. If he kissed them, would she truly stir?

Suddenly, he wanted it to be his face she saw when her eyes opened, and she woke.

Another fateful encounter.

Labour Day Weekend, 1971

It's been a long hot day at Muir Beach.

We're toasted, me and good friend Dee. My three-year-old goddaughter Eve is tired but pleased; she's been splashing in the surf, building sandcastles, playing with someone's dog. It's time to find a ride home.

We've been sharing sand space with some nice people. They're heading to Sausalito - yes, of course, they've got room, they can drop us off in Mill Valley. Late model Caddy; hop in.

We head up to Highway One, Eve in my lap. As we pull onto the crumbling cliff road, I notice our seatbelt isn't working.

Hey, AmyLiz, did you ever read that story I sent you? You would enjoy it now that you're in a fairy tale mood.

Deb, yours are definitely fitting the bill. I didn't want to finish reading this last one because I remembered what it was about.

A Personal Fateful Encounter

September 1997. I’ve been in England for four hours, and I am jetlag incarnate. It’s my program’s international volunteer welcome conference. Most of the Americans already know each other from a pre-departure orientation I missed, and most of the un-Americans don’t arrive until tomorrow.

It’s lunchtime, and the food, though familiar, tastes a bit odd. I hear a loud voice pontificating at the next table and look over.

Dark-haired guy, premature receding hairline, goatee, burly, in a Colorado sweatshirt. Not bad looking, but not the lithe, wiry type I fancy, either. I stereotype him by his voice, looks, and sartorial choices:

Frat boy. Boring. Not my type.

Two hours later I’m in love with him.

Heh. Nice.

Musings on Cruel Sister.

The story for this iis sharpening and focusing and suddenly becoming very interesting, in terms of research. Also? It's made a hard left from where I began with the idea.

If I was to rough out a synopsis right now, it would read something like this:

When Penny Wintercraft-Hawkes gets a call from her older brother Stephen, a Hong Kong-based businessman, she's surprised but delighted to learn that he's coming back to England with his newly-married wife Tamsin, and settling in London. It seems that he and Tamsin are planning to make use of a prime piece of riverfront property Stephen's owned for years, on the Isle of Dogs in northeast London, to build Tamsin's dream house: a reproduction Elizabethan manor house, using period materials. Since Penny's longtime companion, traditional musician Ringan Laine, is an expert on period property, Ringan volunteers his services as an advisor.

They learn, before ever visiting the empty piece of land, that the ground is haunted by a young bomb disposal engineer, killed on the site in 1947. Their joint fear - that Penny's sensitivity to the unseen world will be triggered by song - while still present, is tempered by the knowledge that this ghost, at least, has no connection to music.

But this time, it's Ringan himself, while working with architects and workmen on the site, who begins to hear and see things he can't explain. A flash of hounds, voices no one else hears, and finally, glimpses of people in the dress of the 16th century, bring it home to him that the ghost they all thought they were seeing is not what haunts this ground.

The true story takes Penny and Ringan across the river to Greenwich, to a royal wedding nearly five centuries ago, in search of a hidden tragedy, to the Bodleian library in Oxford, and, in the end, to the hidden letters of a confidant of Anne of Cleves."

Feedback? Theme seem clear?

Anne of Cleves is the one Henry took one look at and said, "Nope, not her," isn't she? Something about the official portrait of her being overly flattering?