Monthly Archives: June 2005
Fanny Fae rubbed her eyes and put aside her reading glasses. The night had been long and if she didn’t get any sleep, the nagging pain in her back would become excruciating again. ‘Why do I always drive myself like this?’, she wondered. But, deep within the depths of herself, she knew that she had to push. Dr. John Riengold and the FBI had come to her her in order to find out more about a series of crimes with strange occult overtones Fanny had enjoyed a reputation of having the knowledge and experience, but the black candles, birds left crucified in strange places inverted with both the markings of Santeria and Vodou, none of it made sense.
Everyone she had ever met seemed to think that her line of work would be so much more exciting than it truly was. Somehow, she mused, people’s Hollywood-influenced ideas about what being an occult expert” was all about, and the reality of that didn’t quite mesh.
Maybe it was a chance to see the handsome doctor more often that made her take the assignment rather than her expertise and the promise of lucrative consulting fees from a government agency. He had kind eyes and a heart that was wide open. It was too easy for someone in his profession to cut themselves off from their feelings. Reingold seemed to use the profession as a means to open others up to their grief and offer closure.
“Frances MacKay, please, a familiar voice said on the phone.
“This is Dr. Riengold, have I gotten you at a good time?”
“Sure, Fanny said softly, “Please you can call me Fanny. You know, I am always delighted to just have a reason to talk to the M.E. . “
“You won’t be so happy to hear from me, I am afraid,” he said.
Fanny gripped the phone and eased back into her chair, preparing for the worst, “Why is that?” she asked.
“It’s the new head of the department, Fanny,” he said, “You know how these rightwing, neo-conservative assholes are. The guy seems to think we should be bringing in priests rather than….”
“Don’t tell me,” she sighed, “they object to having an actual Witch on this one.”
“Yeah,” John Riengold’s voice was quiet, he seemed almost more hurt and disappointed about the situation than Fanny herself was.
“No problem,” Fanny said with a forced cheerfulness, her heart in her ankles, “I’ve got a thousand clients who need my help right now anyway. It isn’t like this was my only paying gig,” she lied. The truth however was that for the moment and the foreseeable future, it was.
“So…..” his voice hesitated, “Will you have dinner with me?
What was this, a consolation prize? It was obvious she wanted to see him. But she was not looking forward to forced smiles, and insisting that she pay half her bill so that the good doctor Riengold wouldn’t think that she was struggling. Dinner…maybe some dancing and sex afterwards? Sex…GOD DAMN! When was the last time she had any of that? Not since Douglas – not since he was killed. Could she ever be with another or would she freak out like she did last time?
“No,”she said at last,“ I really have to finish this other project,”she said.
“Another time then?”
Fanny hung up the phone and heaved a sigh. Nothing was going right. Nothing. She wrestled internally about whether to go out on her own, or stay home and netsexxing with her new online lover in Australia. Nothing appealed to her, not even the possibility of Simon writing his titilating words in just such a way that she would touch herself, imagine it all, just as she had with Douglas. He had been the perfect husband, the perfect ritual partner. The magic that they wove, it was something beyond magickal. She never dreamed that it could have ended, and when it did, part of her had died along with him.
Better to go to sleep, she thought. She rose from her chair and stumbled down the long hallway toward her bedroom. In a small blue unmarked bottle she dispensed out two large capsules that she had filled herself with an herb concoction of her own making. Between the lotus and opium, she would be out cold. It was much better to sleep.
I would like any and all of you to make a comment here and tell me something you don’t like about me. Don’t hold back, whatever you want to say won’t effect how I feel about you, so you can say what you want, with no reprocussions. Tell me why you hate me. But try to impress me. Being a Wytch I have heard all manner of reasons why I would be hated. Be original.
I write this particular prompt under duress, for I donna like being asked to do what I’d rather not. I also do not like to be incited to remember that which I do not wish to remember. Such impositions put me a desire to be naught but all manner of being disagreeable. This is something that I would rather like to avoid. When I find out who is responsible for this particular query, they and I will be having words.
Within the walls of a Mughal palace, in India is a courtyard that reminds me of one at the Hacienda Las Glorias, which is my home. Or perhaps I should say that my home now reminds me of that place I had been so many years before. The blue tile walls were the first memory we had after a particularly long battle against the English. Douglas and I had fought side by side, the Reaper was listing badly, and Douglas was determined that we would not be captured. He would not see his men, nor me nor himself hung like dogs, our carcasses left out to rot in the elements as warnings to other pirates, not to take up the Sweet Trade.
Things were going badly, there was no way that we could win this battle, and well did Douglas and I know it. I was prepared to die, but Captain Douglas Francis O’Riely had other things in mind. The English ship, a second rate of the line, was ready and moving in for her final attack against us. Without warning, Douglas called out to Mr. Snellgrave to get me off the ship. The first mate tossed me over his sholder and into a nearby jolliboat. It was lowered to the sea and cut loose even before I could take out a breath to eén protest. I tried in vain to grab the tail of the rope that dangled down only to have the wake between the two ships sent me too far adrif too quickly. I was shouting and screaming amid the shots and canon fire lobbing between the two, but to no avai. Thankfully I was ignored by the men of the opposing ship of the Royal Navy and by those who had been members of my own crew. Blades crashed and clanked together, the cries of the dying and of gunfire was heard even as I drifted out further into the blue of the sea.
I must have been no more than fifty feet out, when I spotted Douglas on the top deck locked in a heated exchange with an officer of the King’s Navy. I shouted out to him, but he did not hear over the din. In the next few moments, I watched in horror as the other officer’s sword swept up in an arc and came down across Douglas’ midsection. He pitched forward, his eyes must have grown wide in surrise at his assailant’s blow met it’s mark. Those blue eyes that I had looked into countless times were now to be closed forever. In the shock of it all I must have fainted, for when I next woke up, it was within the blue tiled walls of the Mahal of Ghuratkote, home of my friend, lakshmi_bai.
Blue eyes forever closed
Blue of the sky, upon a azure blue sea.
Those blue tiles will forever remind me
of that day and of thee..
Now, every day I look at the fountains and the courtyard and see the same colour blue. The desert sky is also that same shade in the evenings. Nothing it seems can erase that memory, no matter how hard I’ve wanted to forget.
Damn you for making me remember it so vividly now.
Fandom: Original Character
Word Count: 630
This week’s questions is one of the most vapid ones to date.
Blue: Write a ficlet inspired by the word blue. It might be a color, it might be a mood, it might be the name of your favorite hound dog from when you were 10. Whatever! Use your imagination.
I want to know who is responsible for these?! The last three weeks showed some promise that the group was actually getting better in the way of the questions being posed, however, right now, I am thoroughly disappointed.
I am going to do some serious thinking about whether or not I plan to stay. I am not the only one who has felt this way. I know that nearly all of my writing partners in the group are also fed up with the questions.
A Wytch, if she is one worth her salt, is in essence always alone, whether she be surrounded by people or not. We stand on the precipice, one foot in the world of form and the other outside of it. Not so very long ago, however, I had set my sights on finding my old paramour, Douglas. In the course of events, I was able to connnect with his niece, Morgan Adams, who was a great Captain in her own right. It was upon her kindness that I found myself thrust. It was at this time, over dinner in her cabin that I was asked to recount this very question.
I’faith, there has been much in my life to be proud of that I have done. When I was a very young priestess on the Fortunate Isle, I brought down the High Lady after her many years of rule. Some say she ruled by terror and manipulation for a hundred years. It was a determined young girl with a gift for deciet that brought about her undoing. That girl was myself. Instead of basking in that pride, I walked away from it, and rather than take up the mantle and rule there as Morgienne had, I left.
Heart’s Desire: Think about something you once wanted so badly but never acquired. Write about how you think your life would’ve been different if you had received what your heart desired.
That is a difficult question, considering that I have always gotten nearly anything and everything I have fixated my Will and my desire upon. Perhaps the one thing that I have always wanted but have never attained is to see Scotland, my homeland once more. However, since I am a Wytch, and a wanted woman, there is but one thing waiting for me there.
My Uncle Angus has said that he could hide me adequately so that I could come home, but I beg to differ. There are not only the laws and dilligent watchmen of the human variety, but there are unseen ones, too. There are wards and protections set in place that are designed to keep me out by those who know far more about these things than my poor Uncle could fathom. Goddess bless him for his love and care. Though I never got to see my Uncle again before he passed away, he did leave me well provided for. Scotland lives in me. Anyone can tell by listening to me for two seconds that I am one of Her daughters. Even though I want to go home, and cannot, the desire does not go away.
Muse: Fanny Fae
Fandom: OC / Folklore & Mythology
Word Count: 199