Remember

Different
The first time he smiles
he is labeled.
Not like the rest of us.
Defective
Contaminated
Compromised
They never let him forget.


Separate
He has a pet
with fangs.
Run from him. Fear him.
Lost
Emotional
Angry
It keeps them away.


Superior
He finds respect
in a new place.
We can use him.
Efficient
Intelligent
Commanding
He could be comfortable here.


Uncomfortable
His routine is disturbed
by a man.
I think he needs a friend.
Irritated
Surprised
Challenged
This is new.


Satisfied
The next time he smiles
he is accepted.
You are one of us.
Questioned
Teased
Loved
They never let him forget.

Before the sun

Afraid and emotional.
To be alone is common. He is and always has been alone.
He has so much to offer buried under what no one has accepted.
Duty he hides behind.
Easier to pretend he doesn't feel at all, because how can they understand?

Sometimes I cry for him.

Waiting on a dream

Sleep dearest sleep
I know you are tired
That coat is heavy and wet
And so much soul spraying out
All those wings burst into ashes
Smothered specks of dirt
You wanted it right
Wanted it over
Enough to hide
From me

Sleep dearest sleep
Let it float away awhile
I wait for you
In my dreams

What I have left

When I'm tired
Shambling down the dragging seconds
Sucking down air in sleepy gulps
Blinking at the floor
I dream of you
And rest.

When I'm cold
Nothing to emote
Pulling tighter at a jacket
Wanting some sun
I remember you
And warmth.

When I'm late
Typing with frantic fingers
Vaulting up and tripping down
Bursting lungs and heart
I think of you
And peace.

When I'm sad
Curling into a tense twist
Clutching at shivering shoulders
Licking at trickling salt
I go to you
And joy.

When I'm alright
Greeting a friend
Thinking with spoken words
Sitting at a desk with nothing to do
I have you
And a smile.

Brown and blue

Brown

He sits alone in a quiet, deafening room, blood thumping to echoes of merely memory. Safe, now, in the cool darkness, a life apart from the dusty dying sand. Pounding through his eyes are the sun and the heat and the speckled uniforms that didn't hide him quite well enough. A dream. Only particles of days gone. He cannot sleep.

Limp

They've given him a plastic stick. Frosty metal and molded rubber to hold up what is left of a man. Psychosomatic. In his head, muddling reality. He offered his life. It was borrowed and returned broken.

Sweater

An extra layer between him and stabbing icy gusts. A neutral color for a nondescript man with a cane and a limp and no place to go. Except maybe this chair. He punches an embroidered pillow behind his back, shrugs into peachy threadbare velvet upholstery. It's no good. Tapping his third leg on the wooden floor, he waits for something. Maybe he hopes. Either way, when the tall man beckons, he chases him through the door.

Scarf

The place smells like wine and tomatoes, spices, garlic. He blinks uncomfortably at the red-checkered table. Simple conversation has not gone well. Dark hair suspended over a pale, moon-lit face and glowing eyes send him sprawling over the smallest of words. His companion must be cold, still wrapped up in woolen warmth.

Run

Over crumbling brick roofs, down clinking shaking metal stairs, through whistling shadowy alleys, across shouting paved streets they gasp and pull and chase. It's a mistake. His friend says something mad. Breathless and helpless, he laughs and follows again, ducking and darting and hiding to home.

Blue

He stands by a car mounted with glaring, flashing lights, absorbing all, seeing little. Past the yellow strip sits a man he trusts, tugging jerkily at a red-orange fleece blanket. His friend speaks to a gray-haired detective, looks over at him, stops talking, flaps the blanket in the detective's face. He sees only his friend's eyes, open, clear, focused back on him as the man with the blanket approaches. He is reassured. He will rest.

Wake up call

From the depths of sleep, she heard a whistle, so familiar but so foreign. Spock rolled over, noting that she was on the floor, for some reason, and it was surprisingly clean. Three tones, low-high-low. She wanted more sleep. She wanted her bed, not the floor. Spock groaned as she hoisted torso off the ground. She flipped her hair out of her face, blinked twice, then let her elbows buckle beneath her and she collapsed again. 

Kirk and Bones were laid out on the bed and a chair, respectively, in a darkened room that was definitely not her own. She didn't think one slept in a dream, did they? Maybe just in hallucinations.

The whistle again. "Janelle." She waited. "Janelle, wake up."

McCoy opened her eyes, rolled her neck. "Is she still asleep?"

"Yeah. I don't know how we're going to get her up; it's generally impossible, right? JANELLE." Another whistle.

"Maybe you should just get that," Bones suggested.

"Yeah...guess so..." Spock stumbled to her feet and flicked the switch. "Spock here, reporting on behalf of the captain."

"Oh." Chekov sounded faintly surprised. "Well, we are approaching Beta 3. Will the captain be joining us on the bridge for first contact?"

"Of course, Lieutenant. We're on our way; Spock out." She flipped off the comm switch and flopped onto the bed by Kirk. "CAPTAIN KIRK."

Janelle blinked and started to sit up. "Where?"

"That's you, Janelle," replied Bones, eyes closed and relaxed again in her chair. Kirk withered a bit.

"Oh, right."

Spock patted her shoulder briefly. "So, they want you on the bridge to . . . make first contact, I think, with a new planet. Sound doable?"

"Umm . . . sure, I guess?" 

"Yeah. This will be interesting. Caitlin, wanna come up there?"

"Sure."
"Right. Lead on, then, mon capitan." Spock gestured to the door, then she and Bones followed the captain out the door.

BEING NEGATIVE AGAIN

I am not fond of being negative.
I prefer being happy.
Couldn't tell from this blasted blog, could you?
I complain a lot.
Here I am again.
Complaining.
Sorry guys.
I'll shut up now.

Please don't make me look at this anymore

I can't do it.
It make me queasy just to look at it.
Can't I just hit 'delete' and try again?
Do I have to keep this?
Do I have to fix this?
I can't do it.
It's an impossible feat.
Not worth saving.
I am incredibly unhappy just thinking about it.
How do you get back up when you've been flattened by a single pen?
That's more pathetic than pitiable.


I don't take criticism very well.
Apparently.

Twice told still the same

Blue
He is young and angry. He is belligerent and argumentative. I am not irritated. I am merely . . . unsettled by his emotional reaction to a logical investigation.  He violated the academic code. I am in the right to question his actions. It is the correct response to this situation.
I cannot categorize my feelings on this matter. He . . . confuses me. I do not li--It does not please me. I do not approve of him. I will not serve with him. He must be removed.
His actions were not logical, but they have been most effective. I may . . . revise my opinion of him.
I accept.

Green-brown
We are of an age, this man and I. He is decisive and intelligent. He is warm. I do not understand his insistence on familiarity. Offers of friendship are not often given . . . to me. It would be inappropriate to address him informally.
We play games of chess. His smile confuses me. I am unable to ascertain the nature of my feelings. He is my superior. This can go no farther.
I told him my most personal truth. He saved my life. I may acquiesce to his request, on occasion.
Jim.

Breaking free

Once upon a time in a big gray castle lived a boy and his brother and his father. The boy was tall and strong. His brother and father were shorter and stronger. When they went hunting, they left him at home to study. He didn't like that very much.
One day, Sammy, because that was his name, got tired of staying home. He was strong enough, he thought. He could even take care of himself, he thought. So he waited until his brother and father went hunting again, and he left.
For the first few days, Sammy was right. He was strong enough. He could take care of himself. He walked for miles and miles, farther and farther from home. He didn't have to study anymore. He got to hunt.
But then, Sammy got tired. He got cold. He got hungry. By himself, he wasn't very good at hunting.
So when he saw a city and another castle from the top of a dry hill, he was glad.
Sammy walked through the gates of the city and saw a parade. The carriages were shiny, the horses were groomed, the robes were colorful, and the princes . . . they were beautiful. One was short like Sammy's brother and father. The other was shorter.
Sammy looked at the princes, then looked at himself. He was dirty, his shirt was shredded, and his hair was greasy. He was ashamed.
Sammy left the city and started to walk home. His brother and father met him not far from the gates, yelled at him for awhile, then tossed him on a horse.
He knew he had to go home. He also knew that he was coming back.
He hoped the prince would wait.

Writing is a dementor

I hate writing.
More specifically, I hate, I HATE writing about something I do not care about. I am never even remotely satisfied with the results. I am more often ashamed of the awful, disgusting thing on which I wasted time and ink and paper.
My paper is pathetic, and small, and pointless, and vague, and indescribably BORING. It is tired, and trite, and dead. It is covered in red pen that sets its mediocrity ablaze with all the fire of a teacher's contempt. Its smoulder is about to be put out. I'm crying on it.
Why are my thoughts worth so bloody little? Why haven't I got a creative, original bit of anything in me? Why do I have no passion?
They say I should write on that about which I care. Stupid preposition placement. But how does that work when I don't care about anything? I don't want to travel. I don't care about Atlanta. I don't care about the stupid Underground Mall. I am indifferent to a Civil War museum. I'm even dispassionate about the Tavern, at this point. SO THIS PAPER WAS DOOMED TO FAIL.
I'm being highly emotional. I realize this. Possibly a result of sleep deprivation. Possibly just biological.
What I am trying to make clear is that I HATE LIFE right now. I AM ANGRY right now. Not at anyone else. Just at me, because I am made of failure and sadness and nothing great or good or even passable will ever come from me.
This is depressing.
Enough.

Not much in my brain but tissue

My head hurts.
All fuzzy and foggy.
Cottonballs inside is a trite metaphor and entirely inaccurate.
Cottonballs don't hurt.
I think it's more like a dustdevil in my cranium.
Pressure that scrapes at tender tissue.
So tired.

Has been a day

How dare I neglect this? I feel better after writing, just about always. But not when writing absolutely crap papers for class. Ugh ugh ugh. Yesterday was awful. Then it was over and I did nothing today. Today was marvelous.

I want to write...something.
But I have no inspiration today.
I haven't for a couple of days. Wrote myself into a bit of a corner, I'm afraid. Now I need to have an actual plot, and nothing is springing to mind.
Sucks.

Well, I did have a bit of a panic/depression/cry this afternoon. It just hits me every so often that my days are slipping away from me, even the important ones. That was the panic. That the things that mean the most to me are only temporary was the depression. My attempt to deal with these facts was the cry.

I was praying, thanking God for what I've had so far, asking him to fix what's I've wrecked already, and tossing the future at him hoping he'd lob back some sort of instruction manual. Nothing on that front, not yet. But I did get some peace.

I always cry on/before my birthday. Was expecting it, so I'm not really upset by it.

21 tomorrow. Exciting. Terrifying. Liberating? I guess so (pondered the feasibility of purchasing alcohol to christen something without drinking it). However I look at it, it's a new year. That's not a bad thing.

Busy, busy, dreadfully busy

Now is the week of our dismay, quoth I. 'Twill be hellish.
So much to finish in the next coupla days...wanted to be caught up before my 21st...dunno if that'll happen.
So many feelings experienced today...all TV related, so no worries there...
Enjoying all these ellipses...
Need sleep.
Need research.
Need more hours and maybe another me.
Yes.
I don't like being busy.

Meanwhile with sugar

A little nurse flipped a pink-filled syringe through his fingers, pausing at intervals to squirt some of the liquid onto his rosy-stained tongue. As he lounged indifferently in a low-backed chair, feet crossed and propped up beside the computer on a desk sticky with reddish syrup, a tall man in a long jacket fluttered into tangibility.  He kept his eyes on the screen, deliberately slung both arms behind his head, twining his fingertips, and jerked his thumb just enough to jet sugary goo onto his arriving guest. A brief, irritated glance saw the stain removed, and the man with brown hair and chilly eyes stood behind him, stared over the nurse's shoulder. On the screen were the captain, the science officer, and the chief medical officer, all female, all too young, all asleep.
The nurse spoke first.
"Not bad, eh?"
 . . . "What are you doing?"
"Just a bit of fun, really."
"Why?"
"Why not? Besides, they were asking for it, believe me."
"Where are those who belong here?"
"Oh, they're fine. Just sent 'em on a little vacation, which they were asking for, too, by the way. I was just setting things straight."
. . . "Put them back."
"Who died and made you God?"
. . . ". . . . . . ." . . .
"Okay, okay, geez. A guy can't have a little fun around here? I'll put them back; just give me a bit to get my mojo back in gear."
"Good."
With a flickering and a whisper, his unexpected guest was gone. The nurse snorted, brought down an arm for another hit of candy.
"I liked him better before we died."

Sloth or succor

Umm....How does it happen that I find myself drowning without even realizing I'd hit the water? Everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING, is crushing me at once, piling into my consciousness like busy-work personified playing sardines in my cranial car. I just want to curl up under a blanket and pull them out of my brain into a pensieve so I can think straight for a minute or two. 

Today was one of those days where nothing quite went right. Late to class and work more than once; forgotten or unfinished assignments; called out in class with nothing to say. Just . . . one of those.

Need more sleep.

Kinda wanna write.

Hmm.

Nothing to say with words

Have you ever had lots and lots of words inside, but none of them would come out? Or, rather, lots and lots of half-articulated thoughts that are fragmented and mean nothing but are begging to be expressed anyway inside, and none of them are coherent or really yours enough to say out loud or type down or even specifically think?

I want to talk about being an introvert and how much I need time to sit at home and just be for a while.

I want to talk about going to Macbeth and being confused, soul-crushed, angered, depressed, and, shamingly, even a little bored.

I want to talk about how cool it was to have a discussion afterwards about character development and Shakespeare's views of authority figures bringing in multiple plays and feeling really smart.

I want to talk about not being ashamed of being strongly averse to country music.

I want to talk about being ever so much less than I ever expect to be.

I want to talk about how much I need to get done and how disappointed I am with myself for not doing all those things.

Most of all, I want to avoid writing a paper that's due tomorrow. 

So I can't say any of those things. I shouldn't waste time trying to say any of those things.

My voice is being choked off. My words are stolen.

Writing this paper is going to be awful.

At Macbeth

Screaming, crashing, laughing, roaring fury and madness and grief.
Boredom, curiosity, confusion, empathy, amusement, criticism rolling through his withering mind.
Feelings, feelings, feelings and words, words, words, and noise, noise, noise.
Smothering and empty and blank.
Fog and smoke and air.
Flashes in the dark. Dim haze.

Enough.

Sleep.

Taking a break from storytelling

Been working my way through a rewatch of an excellent show that started up again recently so I can start the new season fresh from the last. Making significant headway, finally . . . it's been like a month since I started this. At any rate, I'm here for another episode that promises to be awful and wonderful as usual. Quesadilla in bowl on my desk; I'm hungry.
Here goes funness.

Once upon an October

Crackling leaves skittered over rough pavement, catching on cracks and shoring up against cement stairwells, dragged into corners or up into free air by autumnal gusts of wind. Beneath a pure blue October sky, two girls waited on a scuffed metal bench. Their gloved hands were shoved deep into fleecy jacket pockets, their shoulders hunched into tasseled scarves. A penetrating breeze teased long strands of hair from beneath one's hood and whipped them into her watery eyes. "Are you sure we shouldn't just go inside?"
Her shivering cohort shook her head, the motion downplayed somewhat by cold shakes that rattled her entire frame. "They come by every Thursday, after lunch and before class at two," she replied, nearly nipping off the end of her tongue between chattering teeth. "Just hang on a minute."
The bang-beaten girl withdrew her hands to blow on them, rubbing them together vigorously. "This had better be worth --"
Her retort froze to her lips as she saw a trio of men approaching from down the sidewalk.
***
"'S really cold out today, Bones," Jim said to his friend, working his hands to increase circulation as they strolled down the paved path. "I dunno why I'm even going to class."
"Because you don't want to fail?" Leonard huffed, managing to roll his eyes and glare threateningly at the same time. "And I don't think Spock is going to let you 'borrow' his notes again."
"The good doctor is correct in his assumption, Jim," asserted the third member of their group. Though none of them were short, he was the tallest and sported a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses.
"And don't you start calling me that, either," Len glanced over at Spock with irritation. "Just because I got accepted into the graduate program doesn't mean I'll get far enough for that 'Ph.D.' after my name." He stuck his hands farther into the pockets of his parka and scowled as a particularly icy gust slapped him in the face. "It is damned cold, though," he muttered, examining Spock with more care. "How do you like the chill, Spock? Have enough layers to insulate that thin blood of yours?"
Spock was bundled up in three layers of warm shirts under a sweater under a hoodie under a long woolen coat. The ensemble was capped off by a large striped scarf and a beanie for his ears. He gave Bones a brief look, quirking one eyebrow in the worrier's direction. "I believe I shall survive the walk, Len, but I thank you for your concern."
"Just checking, you cold-blooded cretin."
"Now, gentlemen, let's all be friends and agree that Bones is a genius and this weather is god-awful," interjected Jim before familiar bickering got entirely out of hand. "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think you two hated each other. Why are you friends, again?" Two pairs of eyes, one clear blue and one dark brown, fixed him with pointed stares. "Oh, right, it's 'cause you both love me. I think that's a pretty good reason to set aside your differences, am I right?" He laughed and skipped ahead when both men lunged at him. "Bones, you know I'm right, and Spock, you know I'd get your notes eventually." He stayed out of reach and waggled his eyebrows, attempting to give Spock a sultry stare and failing miserably because he was smiling too broadly. "You're helpless against my wiles."
"Aren't those usually the province of women, Jim?" Spock allowed himself a small smirk, while Bones guffawed openly.
"Guess that proves who's the woman in that relationship, eh, Spock?" Leonard teased. Jim was still trying to avoid their combined efforts to pin him down, and Bones was ready to give up. They were almost at class, anyway.
Spock was not so easily deterred. One careless slip from Jim sent the smaller man flailing towards the cement and rocks; Spock grabbed his arm and yanked Jim into a brief embrace. Jim grinned up at Spock, said, "See? I planned this," and leaned in to kiss him briefly on the cheek.
Bones rolled his eyes again, grabbed a shoulder of each, and dragged them into the building where class had started two minutes ago.
***
Two girls sat on a bench, its black paint fading and flaking. Their eyes were stuck open and focused on the door behind which three men had vanished. One reached out a quivering arm and jabbed the other in the shoulder.
"Did you just see . . ."
"Yeah." They remained, silent and staring for several minutes. Leaves scratched raggedly over the rough pavement, playing with the rushing of the wind in their ears.
Finally, the first to speak offered a final word.
"It was totally worth it."

Downer is my preferred state of being

I am so, so tired.
Keep falling asleep in random places at random times. I'm getting too old for this late-night/early-morning stuff.
So, this little drabble fic I'm coughing up. I never write fic because I'm never satisfied with the results. I don't like the way I write dialogue, the way I describe ongoing action. It gets trite and boring, or over-blown, or just sloppy really fast. That's why I'm stuck writing my book, too. I have these excellent characters in my mind and a general idea of where I want the story to go, but it always sounds...just awful when I try to pin it down with words. Yeah.
I was really excited about this idea of mine, and so I tried to write it, and it doesn't sound like it should to me. I still like the idea. I just can't bring it to life the way I think it deserves.
It's depressing.
I'm going to sleep.

Meet you there

"What deck is sickbay on?"
"Pretty sure it's deck five." Their momentum catapulted them into the lift , fortunately swift to open. Each grabbed a handle, slicking it with their sweat but past caring, heartbeats thundering in their heads, their chests, their very fingertips. "Deck five!" Spock called, hoping volume made the thing move faster, bend more quickly to the wills of its occupants. It didn't.
They commandeered the time of a young ensign, convincing him that this was a diplomatic exercise, told him to take them to sickbay. "On the double, if you please, ensign." Kirk's new-found voice of command backed their bluff effectively. "Thank you; dismissed," and Kirk and Spock burst into sickbay, and they found her.
Dr. Caitlin McCoy lay prone on a biobed, eyes watering, hands at her sides, head raised to quaver mournfully, "Nooooo; this is the opposite of what I wanted . . . " She had quickly come to her own conclusions about the nature of their roles here; her office provided more information than was available in Kirk's quarters. When she saw the commanding pair, she sparked with recognition, and vaulted herself off the biobed to them.
"Okay, you guys, what is even happening?! I wake up this morning and my hands are in some weirdo box thing that does surgery, I guess? And I'm supposed to be operating? So when I start to panic, UNDERSTANDABLY, this guy comes in all laughing and says I can go sit in my office, 'Dr. McCoy,' so I do, and now I am Dr. McCoy, and we are on this starship, and I do not know what is happening anymore," Caitlin ended with a huff of aggravation, crossing her arms to prevent finger-wringing of the cruelest sort.
"So, you figured it out, then?" Spock asked, still wheezing but calming rapidly in her relief. Kirk dropped her mantle of authority, relaxed her stance. They were all okay; no one was bleeding or captured or lost in space.
"What, that we're in the show? And that we're supposed to be the characters? I do not like this at all," McCoy replied, shaking her head, grimacing with distaste. "If I wanted anything at all, I wanted to meet them, not BE them, and that's even if I wanted anything like this in the first place. I was supposed to be doing SURGERY. I'm an English major, not a doctor!"
Spock snorted with laughter, elbowed a chortling Kirk, said, "Of course, Bones."
Bones was confused, thought back a moment, then grinned herself. "Oh, haha, whups. Anyway . . . should we all just hang out here, or something? I have a computer and stuff we can use to, I don't know, try to figure this thing out."
"Captain's got a computer in her quarters, too, and we can have some privacy there . . . less surgery?" Spock offered. Kirk nodded vigorously.
"Yes, let's go there so we can talk about this," the captain vocalized her reply and led the other two from sickbay.
"Okay, and can we also just mention how sad this is?" interjected Bones as they paced the long, monochromatic path back to Kirk's quarters. "We are actually on the ship, but we can't even see the people we came here for."
"I know!" wailed Spock, "Janelle and I were literally crying about it before we came for you; it is the saddest thing in the history of things."
Conversation continued in this vein until the captain's door squeaked shut behind them. Each collapsed onto a piece of furniture; Bones in the cold desk chair, Kirk back on the colored, covered bed, and Spock laid out on the floor. They sat in silence for a few moments, breathing circulated air, absorbing the textures of the ship, listening to the hum of the engines.
"But now I have a question," Kirk spoke into the emptiness, words falling oddly flat as they prodded the still air. Bones cocked her head to listen, smoothing down brown bangs caught on her glasses. Spock craned her neck from the ground.
"Yes, captain?"
"If we're here, being them . . . are they somewhere else, being us?

Know your place

A low whistle. "Sickbay to the captain," intoned a familiar masculine voice. 

Spock snapped her mouth shut, breaking off another keening wail. One hand jabbed Kirk on the shoulder. Collapsed on the colorful coverlets, the captain depicted abject misery, blonde hair flung in all directions, watery eyes crimson with salty secretions. Spock poked at her again, the motion stabbing her own chest with pity.

The question came from what seemed so small a place in Kirk's throat, it could hardly emerge. "Am I the captain now?" 

"Yeah," Spock inclined her head briefly, smirked, added, "I mean, affirmative, Captain." A touch of humor for the Vulcan. Her Vulcan, missing. Didn't dwell on that; couldn't dwell on that for long. She shook herself, turning and stretching her tired muscles as the insistent intercom whistle echoed once more in the captain's quarters. 

"Sickbay to Captain Kirk." That voice really was familiar . . . but out of place? Spock twisted around rouse Kirk a third time, jumping when she found the captain already upright behind her. 

"Janelle?" 

The captain stood, padded over to the blinking light on the wall, flicking the comm-switch. "Kirk here," she replied, her tone calm, authoritative. Spock blinked, eyebrows crooked, bemused. 

"Captain, there seems to be a problem with Dr. McCoy. I think you'd better get down here." 

Janelle inhaled once, twice, threw her shoulders back, nodded to the air, then answered. "I'm on my way. Kirk out." Captain Kirk flipped the switch to close the comm-link, heading for the door. "Let's go, Mr. Spock."

"Wait, Captain!" Spock lunged up off the bed after her, the title spilling from her lips, involuntary and unnoticed. "It's Bones," she said. The captain paused by the opening door, wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Bones," Spock repeated with more emphasis, expressing her meaning with a lifted brow. Kirk's forehead with comprehension. Then it crinkled more emphatically with worry. 

"You don't think . . ."

"It's probably . . ."

"Caitlin!"

They ran even faster this time.

I'll be missing you

"Mr. Chekov! A brief test of your knowledge of the ship's anatomy," Spock heaved out, swallowing her rapid sobbing breaths long enough to direct a statement to the young Russian navigator. "On what deck are the captain's quarters located?"

"Deck six, sir," he promptly replied, peering over the back of his chair at the two commanding officers hastily decamping from the bridge. 

"Very good, Mr. Chekov, and umm . . . Mr. Sulu, you have the conn." Spock tossed the last over her shoulder as she and the captain stepped into the lift, the door sliding to behind them with a squeaking swish. 

Captain Janelle Kirk clutched at her first officer's arm, pleading silently for some mark of sanity or logic. "What? What? No. Why?" she sputtered as denial warred with reluctant belief and abject terror. "This can't be happening; it just can't." 

"So . . . deck six?" Spock had settled her own reaction as incredulous acceptance, for the moment. Disentangling her arm from Kirk's, she grabbed a handle on the back wall and set the captain's hand on another. The lift began to move. "Janelle. Let's take a breath; don't overthink. Am I dreaming?"

"Are you dreaming? Am I dreaming?" 

". . . I am not doing the movie thing where they pinch each other." Spock delivered a ringing slap to her own cheek, gave her head a shake to clear it, looked around. Still in a lift. Still wearing a blue shirt. Still with Janelle in a gold shirt. "Okay, I think I'm fairly awake. You with me, Janelle?" 

"I . . . I think so." Most of the captain's panic had run its course. "Are we really . . . here?"

"I think so."

"This is amazing! This is wonderful, and scary, and absolutely wonderful! We actually get to meet all of our favorite people, and talk to them, and . . . and everything!" Enraptured with the very idea, Kirk grinned with uncontrollable glee, clapping her hands together with delight. Spock's manic expression matched hers for a glowing moment; then the opening, squeaking lift door startled it off Spock's face. 

They found the captain's quarters without much difficulty, nearly sprinting down gray corridors beneath sickly lights in their eagerness to find a door emblazoned with the correct name and title. Captain J. Kirk. Kirk leaned a weary, shuddering shoulder against the cool grey metal. Spock put one hand on the doorway, head bent and mouth panting, the other hand on her hip. 
"How are we . . . supposed . . . to get in?" she gasped. Their dash across the breadth of the ship had winded her more than she realized. 
"I don't --aaAACK!" came the odd reply from Janelle. Bemused, Spock lifted her gaze to where Kirk had been seconds ago and saw a blank space instead of a steely door or her wilting friend. Ah.
Kirk was on the floor; the door had opened. When Janelle spoke. Interesting.

It was an empty room, containing few signs of habitation. A neatly made bed, clad in blue and gold, a desk was devoid of personal effects. No pictures, no plants, no artifacts decorated the walls or sat on shelves. 

They elected to wait inside for the captain to return as Spock grew ever more restless. A bit of prying would surely go unnoticed if executed with care, she rationalized. Her brief perusal of his books yielded little to entertain. Only a computer sat on the desk. Possibly useful later. One door remained, not a very promising one, but when the closet was pulled open, it revealed . . . women's clothing?

Spock lingered, confused, in front of the closet, reluctant to give credence to mental images of cross-dressing captains, until something clicked in her mind. The crew, the door, the clothes: clues to an unwanted truth. Drops of despair burned and blurred her vision as she turned to her friend who sat on the edge of the bed.

"Umm . . . Janelle . . . I think you're the Captain."

"What? No. No. I'm not the captain; James T. Kirk is the captain, and we're waiting here to meet him!" 

"Umm . . . I don't think so. And I think," and here Spock paused to breathe, sucking back one last bit of sadness, "I'm supposed to be Spock." 

Their howls of anguish would have been heard on the nearest Starbase, had not the captain's walls been soundproofed.

Do I dream or do I wake?

She blinked in confusion, dazed by the swirling, flickering console beneath her fingertips. Someone behind her asked for a reading. "Planetary signs seem normal, Captain," she replied, shaking herself to clear momentary brain-fog. "Earth-like atmosphere and vegetation."
Wait. Captain?
She swung around in a panic, hardly hoping, desperately wishing for it to be true. Blank, slate-grey walls, a large screen, two piloting seats in front of a captain's chair . . . where an unfamiliar gold-clad figure sat tall, legs crossed, looking blankly back at her. Yes, this person had yellow hair and ice-blue eyes, but she . . . was a she. 
Winking back an almost-tear or two of disappointment, Spock quickly scanned the rest of the bridge of her dreams, certain that this was some strange, sad game. Instead, she found in the communications seat the correct woman in red, complete with coiffed black hair and impractically manicured nails, poised for instruction. Craning their necks to determine what went amiss with their commanding officer were the well-known gold-clad pilot and "nawigator." Now she was certain that she was sleeping, but where were the captain and his science officer?
"Spock?" came a quavering query from the captain's chair. She sighed, thinking sadly that this was the worst dream of all time, and took a closer look at the source of the bewildered voice.
"Janelle?!" 
The rest of the crew gave her a strange look. Communications Officer Uhura looked between the girl in gold and the girl whose shirt was blue, interjecting when both seemed dumbstruck. "That is the captain's name, Mr. Spock."
"Captain?!?" The title emerged abruptly, a bit strangled by what may have been hysteria."A word, please?" With another incredulous glance around the bridge, Spock scurried to the lift, followed closely by her friend.

Emotionally invested

Salty, warm wetness rolls down her cheeks, over her chin, dripping off the tip of her nose into her mouth and onto the pillow she clutches to her convulsively. Wrinkling her face to sob physically hurts, the grimace of sorrow held for far too long this time. She sniffs to suck back the more disgusting evidence of her despair, but lets the tears flow freely. To scrub them away would be to eradicate all traces of her heart's bitter, broken pieces, lying shattered on the floor, dashed against the cold cruelty of SCREENWRITERS.

Overslept . . . but it's Sunday

A sleep mask is a dangerous thing. A little scrap of black silk, two bands of thin elastic, and I am out until my body decides it has had enough. Which is never as early as I had planned.
Slept 'til 1:30 this afternoon, is what I'm getting at. I have things to do. I probably won't do any of them. I come to terms with this sort of fact every day. It's stopped phasing me.
Back to my regularly scheduled slacking.

Rage and a possible overreaction

I am a bit . . . scratch that; I am very angry. A bit sad.
How can someone judge me for my very personality? I know me better than you do. I understand my own brokenness more than you ever will, and don't you dare try to tell me how I am supposed to feel or think or react to a situation.
This is a rage post. I may or may not leave it up here, but I had to say something. I hate getting angry. I end up crying in impotent fury, because I can't articulate around sobs. I break pencil lead trying to scratch into paper the strength of my wrath.
Sigh.
There. I think most of it's gone. Fury just leaves behind a lot of hurt, like I got burned by it on its way out.
I may or may not be overreacting . . . but one thing guaranteed to make me incredibly angry is someone saying that an opinion is wrong. 

Black to White

Black

Who is she? His head is roaring, confused, afraid, enraged. He sees her eyes, but his brother stands between them, catching his wrists, stopping the knife aimed at her demon heart. Looking up, deep into eyes like their father's, he begs to understand. Calm down? Wait? But why? She is what they kill; she is a creature; she is evil. He lets his brother wrest the blade away, and he staggers back, pacing, shouting, running away from what can never be explained.

Smoke

It pours from the poor bastard's mouth, pooling on the tiles, sinking and scorching the ground until it fades into nothing but black smudges, drawn forth by his brother's outstretched hand. Who are you? He stares at the traces of the demon on the floor, looks up at his brother, sees the boy with the floppy hair who thought the world of him. Are you still in there? Blood trickles from his brother's nostril; that worries him, one large hand raised to his brother's forehead that's squinting with pain.

Bloody mouth

As the confusion settles, he looks for his brother, his burden, his family. The one he can trust; the one he loves. On the dusty wooden planks, he sees him kneeling, and his heart rips. He's paralyzed by pain, he stares, waits, says nothing as his little, huge brother raises his head from the demon's neck, chin stained and dripping scarlet. What have you become?

Bloody hand

A red slice in the angel's palm; two fingers dipped in life move swiftly, forming sigils he doesn't recognize. He doesn't know what's happening. Where is he? He waits in a room, an empty room, a comfortable room, but for what? He doesn't trust them, anyway. The angel has no time to explain; two damp fingers touch his forehead and the room is gone, the angel is gone, he is away and safe and alone and bereft, two fingerprints his only sign of his friend.

Feathers

That noise, a fluttering, flapping sound of wind and fabric, gives him pause, and he looks to the passenger seat. He hears it so often, of late; by a lake in his dreams, on a bench in a park, behind him in a junkyard, beside him in his car. The angel is here, standing, sitting, staring, speaking, healing. What makes that sound? Maybe the trenchcoat he never removes. Maybe something invisible. Does this angel have wings?

White

Sparks fly across the warehouse, lightbulbs overpowered and exploding into glass shards and flaring light. The building shakes, shudders, unable to contain what walks through its doors. Through electrical mayhem, he watches a figure approach, pierced by blue eyes, pinned by confusion. Who are you? Why do you follow me? What do you want? He is saved, he is grateful, he is unsure, he is alive. He meets an angel.

Went to a play

Saw Taming of the Shrew with friends tonight. Was excellent. Forgot how to breathe on multiple occasions; I'd call costume design and casting a rousing success.
All Shakespeare, all the time, is how I'd like to live my little life. 
The players begin a bit rockily; they're not quite as out there with the characters or clicking quite as well as I've come to expect from the Tavern, but they're good. All of my favorite actors are in this one, save Jonathan: Daniel, Matt, Andrew, J.C. I like Kate, too. I don't remember actress's names; is that sexist? Maybe...but then I don't objectify them, so I don't learn their names out of guilt like I do with the actors. 
What do I say about it to begin? Hortensio and Gremio were a couple of my Tavern favorites, as well, and they begin the play vying for Bianca's hand. Tranio (Daniel) and Lucentio (Andrew) are on the stage, the first amused and the second admiring. They hatch a plan, a switching of identities, which leads them to strip on stage...(? but I am okay with this) when enters Biondello (Matt), confused all to Hades. He tries to strip, too. 
No need to run down the entire plot, but Tranio's appearance as Lucentio makes me want to swear vehemently under my breath. I content myself with a muffled "FFFFFFFFRICK," but not contented at all, really, because he just keeps coming back. Lucentio's wooing of Bianca as Cambrio is distressing, to say the least; they explore together the Kama Sutra, or so it is heavily implied. Ick. Tranio is suitably horrified. 
Petruchio is more mercenary and less insane than I have ever seen him played, but his first sight of Kate is the sweetest portrayal of love-strickenness. He can hardly speak whenever he looks upon her throughout the play. He loves, teases, coaxes her into his silly game of outward obedience but private, joyous peace and equality. Their happiness is the most satisfying, and his delight in her a beautiful thing to observe.
Vincentio is the Godfather. That is amusing. Baptista is persistently drunk. That is also amusing. Biondello is confused and frustrated. He is adorable, as usual. Grumio is flamboyant as his master, a strange, angry little man. I like him.
I could wish for more bromancing in this play, but in truth, the relationships are not organized that way. I enjoy it thoroughly. Happy early birthday, me.