Bookish Geek

The last season of LJ Idol?

Well, how could I possibly say no to that?

I haven't written a story in a minute. Let's see if I can't spin out a yarn or two.

STOP! This is part 2 of a two-part piece for week 8 of LJ Idol. If you haven't read part 1, please read it first, here! Thank you.

---

Let the record state that I was simply trying to read a book at the time. No more, no less. I was lying in bed with my old childhood copy of Redwall flopped open across my knees, a whiskey-on-the-rocks at the table by my arm.

"Ashley!" I heard him scream it from downstairs, and I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten, wishing, waiting for him to go away. His footsteps echoed up the stairs and eventually he swung into our bedroom, sweat slicking his bangs to his face as he beamed like a six year old. "Ash, guess what!" Using my finger as a bookmark, I closed the cover and leveled my brother a glare. I have never hated him as much as I did right at that moment.

"What, Rhett?" He didn't detect my annoyance as he launched into his explanation of how he'd been asked to try out for professional football, he was going to play in the big leagues, how he was going to make it big! Just wait! Rhett dug through the bag that had been slung across his back, pulling out papers and notes and letting them flutter to the floor, an autumnal rain of white, crisp sheets. A stray football wobbled across the carpeted floor and I locked eyes with my brother, breathing hard in time with him to keep from socking him.

"Great!" I managed, as Rhett thrust a piece of paper at me. A thick slab of cardstock, pasted painstakingly onto a softer, creamy yellow piece, proclaiming the blessed union between himself and the girl he'd been dating for three years: Haven Sanderson. My brother knelt on the floor, a knight proclaiming fealty, and squinted up at the ceiling fan, his lips moving in some odd formation of a prayer, minus the vocals.

"I can't look," he finally said dramatically, peering up at me through those nasty, sweaty bangs. "So you have to look for me, Ash. What day is my wedding?"

"You don't know the day of your own wedding?" I asked, incredulity slipping its way into my voice.

"Just tell me, brother," Rhett asked, his voice laden with desperation. I glanced down at the cardstock, and back up at Rhett.

"March 20th."

Rhett rolled over on the floor like he was being exorcised for a demon that had taken him over mind, body and soul. He writhed there on the carpet of our childhood bedroom, moaning to himself about how he was too young and this wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. I, awkwardly comforting him, the very picture of the "little" (by two minutes) brother.

That night, with a twenty-four pack of beer having been consumed between the two of us, Rhett confessed to me his hare-brained idea. And thirteen of those beers explain why I thought it was a good idea, a great idea, a foolproof idea.

"... and then we'll switch back that night, at the reception! Nobody will have to know, Ashley." I was red-faced with laughter, the apples of my cheeks flaming hot against my pale skin as I chucked the empty can across the living room into the gaping maw of the trash bag.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! You think she can't tell the difference?" but the look on Rhett's face said that he wasn't kidding, he had to go try out and keep his girl and then we'd all be happy and set for life, just wait and see!

"It's just for like two hours, man," Rhett slurred, stumbling his way to the bathroom. "and she's a good kisser anyway, teach you a thing or two at the altar!" I looked down at my arms, self-conscious: I had always had a bit of a crush on Haven, but this just wasn't right.

And all this goes to explain how that evening, when I tilted my brother's fiance's veil away from her face, I saw the faintest flicker of distrust dance across her face. I smoothed her brow with my thumb, smiled deeply, and swept her into a kiss that was the stuff of fairy tales. Cameras snapped, and I grinned, beaming ear to ear.

We took photos in the hallways, at the altar again, beside a tree shaped vaguely like a bird of prey. And as we were ushered into the limo to go to the reception, I watched as Haven bustled her skirts up and shimmied in beside me, the slick leather sending her sprawling into my side. I laughed, offered her some champagne from the mini bar, which she politely declined.

"You know I don't like champagne!" she protested, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Of course I knew that, honey, I was teasing, you know how I get.

We pulled into the venue for the reception, and could hear the screaming and stamping of feet outside the limo. Haven turned to me, eyes shining, resplendent in her white dress. "I love you," she said, leaning over and kissing me butter soft. "I always have, and I always will," she kissed me again, the sweetest look of love on her face. "Ashley."

I felt like I had been punched in the gut, and laughed it off, making dismissive hand gestures and murmuring about how silly that was, she knew it was her fiance, her Rhett. Haven made a face and pressed a finger to my lips, quieting me as she took my other hand in hers.

"You're identical," she said, the look on her face rapidly moving from excitement to hysterics, "but my fiance has a birthmark on his wrist." Haven flipped my wrist over, indicating the lack of a mole that Rhett did indeed have, an anomaly from birth that we had always hated: as children we'd pressed our wrists together over and over, hoping that part would rub off on me so we could be the same again.

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish, unsure of what to say, as Haven gathered up her skirts and threw open the door to the limousine, the bright lights from the venue shining out, making her a martyr.

"Let's go," she hissed under her breath, clenching my hand in hers. "and when your brother gets back, you best go into witness protection." Haven pressed her lips to mine and waved to the cameras, and we grinned and nodded and ducked rice on our way into the reception hall, fear cold as an iron nail in my belly.

This is the last in a three-part series based on my entries for weeks 4 and 5. :)

------------------------------------------------

"Children are our future?" Gregory laughed in a short, raspy burst, holding out the wafer-thin flyer so that his coworker could see it. "They're what got us into this mess, Debbie!" He dropped it on the floor: just a piece of hospital propaganda, typical in all its normalcy, depicting a smiling mother and child with some polite scribblings about breastfeeding and bonding.

The pale, wispy blonde's skin looked almost yellow, and she shook a bit as she nodded, looking as if she were biting down an oncoming roll of nausea. "Yes, sir," she looked down into her arms and let out a sigh. "But, what shall we do with ... ?"

Gregory strode over to Debbie, two quick bursts of energy, and peered down at the bundle cradled in her lap. "This child," he said, lifting the bundle from the warm safety of Debbie's arms and dropping the blankets from around it, "will be the first of many. This child will know nothing of love. Thank god you found it, Debbie." The infant, suddenly without its warm swaddling clothes, let out a siren-scream of panic. Gregory held it in one large, meaty hand and bounced up and down for a minute. Debbie could have sworn she saw the baby narrow its eyes at him, sizing him up meticulously.

"Yes, sir," Debbie shuffled through the bag at her feet, withdrawing a slip of paper and reading it to herself before saying it out loud. "her name is Piper."

Gregory wrinkled his nose. "From now on, these children will be taken before the parents have a chance to name them. Piper? You don't look like one of those!" he exclaimed to the infant. "Nevertheless, this is the start of something big, Pipes. Just you wait."

---

Piper McClellan was late for school, and every bone in her seven-year-old's body was worried sick. As she crammed her feet into her soft, shapeless boots she heard another baby begin to wail in the nursery. Piper rolled her eyes and turned to look through the picture window: it was number 206, as always. She stormed to the window and pounded her fist against it: "Shut up!" she screamed through the glass. Not only did number 206 keep screaming, but number 134 and 171 started as well. Great.

"I'm leaving!" she said to no one in particular as she ran down the stairs and out the back door. Luckily school was just a ramshackled house two doors down from her own, so she was a mere ten minutes late as she slid into her seat.

"Piper," her teacher warned as she yanked her books from her backpack and swung them onto the table. She grimaced, but bridged her fingers and fought back tears. "you have got to be on time. You're not starting off on the right foot, now are you, young lady?"

"No sir." she said softly as she opened the cover on her Breeding textbook and traced an image of a woman holding a squirming puppy, both the woman and the puppy were smiling and looking like they were having a lot more fun than Piper.

"We were just about to discuss one of your favorite subjects, Miss McClellan. Boys!" All around the room, the little girls let out nauseated vomiting noises. As the oldest, it was Piper's job to lead by example, so she made a small gagging noise too. "What's wrong with boys, ladies?"

"They smell awful!"

"They don't clean up after themselves!"

"They don't put the wiping paper on the thing in the bathroom!"

The girls turned to look at Piper, who arched an eyebrow before realizing what she was supposed to say, what the phrase was that would bring them all home.

"They get you pregnant."

"Pregnant!" said 24 from the back of the room, conspiracy rife in her little six year old's voice.

"24 is right, as is Piper," her teacher said, pointing to a photograph on the board. "before, when you were born, even, men and women loved each other. They loved each other so much that they would do a very Special Thing, and have a baby. That's where you come from!" Piper felt ill: she hated to be reminded that she was born out of the Special Thing. "But we know better, don't we, class?" a room full of little girls nodded enthusiastically. "What are we doing instead, 32?" 32, a heavyset six year old with curls the color of flame, stood up next to her desk to speak.

"We are starting our own club, where the gross Special Thing only happens when it has to!" she said reverently.

"And what will happen to the men and women who don't do what we do and do the Special Thing whenever they want?"

"Mister Gregory will make them come live with us in our club, where we have all of the money and nice things, because they will be poor and sad. Then they can do the Special Thing, too, at the pre-approved times if they win the lottery!"

"And if they do not come with us?" At that, 32 paused, panic setting in. Piper could see her teacher start to reach for the paddle he kept by the laser board, and Piper vaulted out of her seat.

"They will be em- ... ema- ..." her teacher turned back to the class, a smile creasing his face.

"Yes, Piper?"

"Emancipated," Piper spat the word out like it was vinegar on her tongue. "Emancipated, sir." The teacher nodded approvingly.

"Good girl, yes they will. 32, what does that mean?" Grateful for the help, 32 inclined her head in a nod of thanks toward her friend before turning back to their teacher.

"It means they will not be in our lives any more, they will be free to go away and do the Special Thing somewhere else so far away it's not even on earth!"

"Yes, ma'am," said their teacher, leafing through his teacher's copy of the textbook. "Class, please turn to chapter eight and read silently to yourselves." Piper paged open to chapter eight - Converting the Breeder - and let her eyes wander around the classroom. She was glad to be Mr. Gregory's daughter, even if it meant she had to take care of all the babies he took. It made her safer than many of the other children, who weren't even really his children ...

It was midnight on Friday when they heard the question.

"Mom, dad?" Sophia's tiny voice threaded its way into the kitchen where her parents stood. Margaret turned around, a serving platter in her hand.

"What is it, Sophie? You know we've got work to do before the party tomorrow night." She smiled, but it was thin-lipped and wan, and she was just sure everyone would know something was the matter. Her husband, David, draped a supportive arm around his wife and pulled her tightly to his side.

"What's up, baby?" he asked the air around him, though it could have been a question for wife or daughter. They heard Sophia's padded footsteps ambling down the hallway, and she poked her head around the door jamb before the rest of her body entered the kitchen behind her.

"I had a bad dream." She said, picking at a piece of cotton fluff on her pajamas. David frowned sympathetically and gave his wife a squeeze, walking over to Sophia and kneeling on her level.

"That's okay!" he said brightly, taking her hand. "Lots of little girls have bad dreams, sometimes dreams are mean when you're three. Let's get you a cup of water and we'll go back to bed, okay?" Sophia shook her head resolutely, her blonde curls bouncing up and down around her face.

"No!" she said. She jerked her hand out of her father's palm and turned to face her mother. Margaret paled, and went back to scrubbing her serving platter. "Mama?" Sophia asked, shuffling over toward the sink. Margaret sighed and plopped the serving tray down in the soapy water, wiping her hands off on a dish towel resting on the countertop.

"Yes, Sophia Angela?" Her tone was no-nonsense, but this didn't seem to affect Sophia at all.

"Are you sure there's a baby in here?" Sophia turned to her mother and reached up, reverently patting the swell of her belly. "I had a bad dream that the baby was going to never come out!" Her father chuckled, good-natured as always, which hid Margaret's gasp.

"Oh, Soph. You know the baby will come out! It just feels like it won't because he has been in there for eight months! You are almost four now, and when you turn four, the baby will come out. You will have a sister or brother in September, isn't that great?" David walked back to his daughter and scooped her up. "Come on now, let's go to bed." Sophia frowned.

"Okay," she said warily. "but I want to use my fish cup." David reached into the cabinet for the cup and carried his daughter upstairs, tucked neatly into the crook of his arm. Margaret could hear them reciting nursery rhymes all the way up the stairs.

She sat the dish towel on the countertop, feeling as if she'd been stabbed. She had too much to do for the baby shower, too much to do entirely. With shaking hands, Margaret opened the ubiquitous junk drawer and riffled through its contents, pulling out an envelope from its recesses. She extracted the most recent sonogram photo, showcasing her and David's healthy, blossoming son, due August 19th.

"A son," Margaret said to herself, tracing her hands over her stomach. "Why, lord? Why a son?" She had told David that they had never told her the gender, never given her a sonogram past the point of gender identification. "I only get one a trimester!" she'd exclaimed, laughing gleefully over the phone that afternoon. "Don't you want a surprise this September, sweetheart?" David had agreed sweetly, damn him, and Margaret had come home, stuffed the sonogram photograph into a drawer and wept into a tea towel while her daughter splashed in the kiddie pool outside.

A postcard was clipped to the bulletin board on the wall of the kitchen, where appointment reminder cards and calendars and the family photographs were kept. A tiny postcard, really, in the scheme of things. But the text, formatted in a bold, blood-red, said all that would ever need to be said on the subject. A postcard just like all the other ones sent out each year, since the Great Shortage of 2042, but so important to anyone trying to start a family these days.

"This year's cull will take place in August. Any sons born in August will be given over to the authorities immediately. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter."

David would never know until it was too late, and Margaret fervently hoped Sophia would forget she was ever meant to be anything but an only child.

"We could go on a picnic this weekend," I murmur, my voice heady and rough from our tumultuous rendezvous under the covers. "you've been saying you wanted to for a while now, and it's such a nice day." I tilt my head back into his chest and peer upward through half-lowered lashes, his sleepy eyes gazing softly back at mine.

"Maybe, Genevieve," he slurs back, the liquor having softened his tongue. "I might just stay home this weekend, though, I need to work on my program." A heartbeat passes. "I thought you were going out to visit your family?" My heart hardens and I feel myself sighing softly.

"I did that last weekend, Robert," I don't even have the energy to argue this point, this one time. "I wish you'd keep your days straight. Maybe use a calendar? We had said that this weekend would be for us, ours. We haven't spend time together in so long." Robert pushes himself up on one elbow, effectively sliding me off of him. My head hits the pillow and I exhale sharply.

"It's not my business to keep up with your schedule, Gena," he snaps, his eyes squeezing closed like they're pinched in a vice. "Maybe if you didn't leave town so much, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Oh, this is my fault?" I twist the ring off my ring finger and thrust it at him, shaking it in the candlelight. In hindsight, it seems such a stupid idea. People like us don't deserve things like candlelight lovemaking. Save that for the couples that love each other. "When you put this on my finger, you promised to be there for me. But you're not even married to me any more, you're married to your work and your damn computer."

Robert's face creases like an origami paper, lines spring out I never even knew existed in the folds of his face. I know this man well, down to the marrow of his bones, but it seems he always finds some new way to surprise me.

"I've got work to do, Genevieve," he snaps, swinging his legs off the bed and slipping his feet into slippers. "And maybe if you were more pleasant to be around ..." he trails off, seemingly lost in thought as he stares at the wall. I remain in the bed, recalcitrant, but when Robert gets up and tracks into the kitchen, I follow, pausing to turn back and blow out the candle on the bureau by the bedside. The candle releases a mixture of sweet smoke and dragon's blood resin into the air, and I sigh, breathing it in. I just have to remain calm, it will blow over. Things will be fine, we will be fine.

Robert stands by the kitchen sink, drinking what could be water but might also be vodka out of a pint glass his cousin gave him for Christmas this past year. The air conditioning is off, and my naked body glistens with sweat in the damp heat of a South Carolina July night. Grabbing a blanket off the back of the sofa, I wrap myself in it and come up beside my husband, sliding my arms around his waist.

"I'm sorry, baby," I mumble, planting a kiss on his shoulder blade. Robert slowly twists around and looks into my eyes, but they aren't filled with the love I might have hoped had returned to them.

"If you're sorry," he starts, yanking himself away from me and glowering hotly, "you'll leave me alone!" He chucks his pint glass at my legs and it bursts into pale fireworks by the wan light of the kitchen bulb, tiny shards of glass prick my knees where the blanket has not covered them. He pauses for a moment before wheeling around and blustering into his study to work on his latest program, leaving behind only the storms from his eyes.

I peer downward at the shards, and pick up a piece with some text still left on it.

"1,337?" I wrinkled my nose and turned toward you, showing you the text on your new glass. "1,337 what?" You laughed and put a bright crimson bow on top of my head, planting a kiss on my cheek.

"1337. It says 'leet,' like elite? I'm the best programmer there is, I'm one of the elite. And one day we'll be married and we'll have scads of children, all named Robert, who will inherit our marvelous fortune and live as kings, just like their mom and dad!"

You threaded a strand of garland around your neck and lifted me up on your shoulders as you strode around the living room of your parents' house, my head nearly missing the beams of the vaulted ceiling. "This will all be ours, my queen!" I threw my arms around your neck, squealing as your younger cousins danced around us, small stars orbiting my fiance's moon.

I sigh, and brush my legs off. The dustpan is in the closet, and this mess will surely not pick up after itself.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I swear I am not incapable of writing about anything except domestic unrest.

I was not satisfied with my participation in Exhibit A, I made $5 off of mechanical turking this month, people have told me all my life that I am a great writer, and gosh darn it I'm pretty!

Let's see what you've got, Exhibit B. I might be the runt of the litter, but I have charisma in spades.

They called it "Turkey Creek," and it was nestled in the north Georgia mountains. Each autumn, my grandparents would bundle me up in the tightest clothes possible and drive the three hours it took to get to the cabin, static-laden Roger Whittaker cassette tapes our background noise.

One particular autumn, I was especially excited. I was four, and Beauty and the Beast had been out for a couple of years, long enough to start making knock-off comic books. At a gas station in the middle of nowhere in particular, Papa bought me a beautiful full-color Beauty and the Beast comic book, and I drooled over its pages the entire way up the road, stammering to my grandmother incessantly about the characters and their adventures, asking her what this panel said, that speech bubble.

We arrived, and stumbled out of the car on numbed legs. I threw my backpack of toys onto the ground and sprinted to the muddy banks of the creek that ran alongside the cabin, though I called it the ocean and Papa and Grandma never bothered to correct me.

"Papa! We have to fish!" I crowed, hopping up and down excitedly in the muck. My saint of a grandfather put the bags down in the cabin and came back a few moments later, carrying a pair of his old boots that were entirely too large for me. Undaunted, I stuck my feet in them and stomped into the water, grabbing at the fishing pole he carried under his arm.

"How...?" I trailed off, visibly frustrated. How did this fishing stuff work again? It was too hard, and too boring. It had been a good five minutes, and nothing had happened. I turned around to talk to my grandmother, and in that moment, Papa pinned a small fish to the end of my line and tossed it back into the water. I turned back around stoically, set up to hate the next few minutes, when Papa exclaimed, "Oh, look, Tricia, your line!"

My line! I yanked the fish out of the water and screeched with excitement. Papa clapped me on the back, and showed me how to unhook the flailing fish from the line and toss him in a cooler full of water Grandma had brought out. "We'll cook him for lunch tomorrow, come on." I clomped after him like a water dog after his master, still clad in his excessively large wading boots and gamely swinging the cooler and its one single, sad occupant.

As I lay in bed that night, clean and tired, I thought about my fish. My fish. My fish! If he was going to be lunch ... ! This wouldn't do. I sat up in bed, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead. Not my fish! No way.

I clambered out of bed and crept past Papa and Grandma's bedroom. They were asleep, curled into each other, twin parenthesis who had been together so long they just settled into each other's bodies like sunwarmed sand. Good. Creeping into the kitchen, I found my fish friend, still aimlessly swimming around in his tiny cooler. Gripping the handle and biting my lower lip between my teeth, I ambled to the door and nudged it open, stepping outside and looking around. The creek wasn't too far, and I was barefoot, so hopefully ...

I found out later that the next morning, Papa awoke to me passed out in bed with feet caked in mud, grimy footprints trailing from the front door to the bed, coating the sheets. I had put the cooler back in the kitchen, but left the lid open. When asked what happened to my fish, I stammered something about how he must have gotten away. Luckily, my grandparents simply said they understood, he must have been quite alone and scared in that cooler, and I must have just gone sleepwalking! I emphatically agreed, and that was all she wrote.

I wore my grandfather's fishing boots until we stopped going to Turkey Creek when I was fifteen.

"Animagi can only take on the form of one specific animal. This animal form is not chosen by the wizard, but determined by their personality and inner traits. Thus, one's Animagus form is a reflection of one's inner nature."

The Indian Grey Mongoose can often be found near human civilization, but tends to be just on the outskirts - an outsider with convenient access to everything it needs on the inside. You can usually find them either alone or with a partner.

What makes the Indian Grey Mongoose so unique is that it is an extremely bold, curious animal, but also has a certain sense of shyness that prevents it from doing anything too crazy. Because of this, our friend I.G. Mongoose rarely leaves its habitat unless it has to. It's probably very tired from working two jobs and doesn't want to go anywhere. It will eat anything it can get its hands on for the most part, though it does typically stick to a carnivorous diet. Speaking of carnivores, it should be noted here that, unlike me, the mongoose s also completely immune to snake venom.

Lastly, it is important to note that the mongoose makes a noise while flirting, appealing to the opposite sex or just plain doing the deed that is best described as "giggling." And really, what other information could you possibly need?


* Patricia
* 23 years old
* From Atlanta, currently in NE Georgia
* Recent Masters graduate (M.Ed. in School Library Media) trying to find a decent full-time job
* Working two crappy part-time ones in the meantime
* I live alone with my cat, Pixel, who is not a mongoose but is in fact the closest a cat can get to being a Labrador Retriever
* I once stole an eraser shaped like a frog from the book fair in third grade and was so emotionally wrecked over it that I returned it 30 minutes later. The librarians could not have cared less. I still feel bad about it.

Got some books you keep around, but you know you're never going to read them again? Of course you do! So do I! 

This meme was created so that we can have a place here in the grand ol' kingdom of LJ to swap, trade or even sell books that get no love in our homes, in exchange for books that need some new life! 

GROUND RULES
- Please fill out the information I've put in the textbox below, and paste it into a comment. People will then comment to your post, asking for a book swap or possibly to buy the book from you.
- If an exchange or price is agreed upon, users can exchange email addresses or offer to LJ PM their swap partner. 
- Use buying as a last resort. I know sometimes you just really want a book and nothing you have appeals to the other person, but the goal here is to spend as little money as possible!
- Remember that within the US you can ship a book media mail for, sometimes, cheaper than first class, but it depends on the book (a hardcover would be best sent media mail, but a lot of times paperbacks are cheaper first class and will arrive much faster).
- The very first comment on this post will be for questions, comments or concerns. Use it!

SHARE IT
<A HREF="http://bookishgeek.livejournal.com/43823.html"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/zb1uC.jpg"></A>

THE SURVEY
<b>Name you like to be called:</b> <b>Location (USA, Canada, England, Australia, France, etc)</b>: <b>Locations you are willing to ship to:</b> <b>How quickly I will ship (estimated):</b> <b>Books I am have to swap (please include title, author, condition (new, very good, good, poor, bad) and hardcover or softcover):</b> <b>Books I am interested in reading (please include title, author and any limitations, such as only taking very good or new books, or only liking hardcovers:</b> <b>Are there pets in your home?:</b> <b>Is your home smoke-free?:</b> <b>A link to any positive feedback you've garnered (amazon, eBay, etsy, etc) (^ This isn't required, but a lot of people feel better about swapping with someone known to have a good track record in the "mailing stuff" department, and nobody wants to book swap with a serial killer!) <b>Anything else worth mentioning?:</b>