AMMONITE'S DIGS

The Allusory Meaning of the Definition - Part 2

2008-05-06T02:56:20Z

Part 2 is under the cut.

Something wakes him. Must have drifted off, finally. His hands, then his arms and shoulders had ached from his own weight. He had tried to stand but had tired, had rested then stood again. Had repeatedly swallowed his own spit until there was no more and would do anything for water. He had wanted to sleep then, or pass out, only each time it seemed he had, he bolted awake, heart pounding, to dark silence.

His tongue feels swollen; he can’t feel his hands and fingers. He has no idea how much time has passed, hours, a day. He is so thirsty, still, he has to pee so bad it hurts. There is no point in holding it because they aren’t going to let him use a head, are they. It’s part of making him feel helpless, no longer human. The relief letting go is exquisite. Warmth turning cold. Frak them anyway; he nearly smiles. He is thinking - logically? So no one has drugged him again in his sleep, probably. Don’t count on anything. Suspect everything. Move, get up, your hands are asleep. If only I still were asleep and didn’t wake up.

He gets his feet flat on the floor and pushes. He seems to weigh more, but he’s probably just getting weaker. It’s not far, only a few inches to get his shoulders even with his hands, so he’s not hanging from the, the cuffs, whatever, around his wrists and frak the feeling’s coming back, tingling and buzzing into his fingertips, he makes fists, releases, over and over.

A distant sound coming closer. Centurions. First the metal clang, clang of them, two of them coming fast right at him out of the dark and there’s nothing to be done but listen to his own heart pounding in his ears.

Someone else is over there on the edge of sight and he focuses on the figure while the silver hulks are on either side unsnapping the locks he couldn’t reach with his own fingers. He smells them, part oil, part something else and for a second considers fighting but knows it’s foolish, and hard-edged appendages grasp his arms and pick him up like a baby between them, barely letting his toes drag across the floor. One, two, three, he’s on a stool, bent over a table, his arms locked down on its top. Clank, clank, clank, they are somewhere behind him.

This is it. His heart is racing. Calm down, breathe. They want you off kilter.

The beautiful cylon walks toward him, only her hair is lighter and on top of her head now. She holds a clear glass of water in her hand and holds it to his mouth.

“Drink.”

It could be--

“It’s not drugged. I will never lie to you. You must afford me the same courtesy.”

Why should he believe her? The water, so cool and wet, touches his closed, cracked lips.

“If I wanted to drug you, I wouldn’t need this water to do it.”

That’s true. He lifts his chin and lets it trickle down his parched throat. It is better than the finest ambrosia, the most aged brandy. When he has emptied the glass, she slowly walks around the edge of the table, sits down opposite and carefully places the glass upon it. He notices then the harsh light shining down from above onto the other objects that sit on the satin metal top before him. Tongs, gleaming flechettes and needles in various sizes, an already glowing hot brazier, clear hoses, rolls of tape and a small machine with dials and silver clips attached. He forces his eyes away, only to catch hers.

“You will hear only the truth from me, Lee Adama. You believe, you hope, you can withstand what will happen. You and I are going down a road together. It is a very long road, as long as it needs to be. You will not be able to leave it. No one is coming to rescue you. Death is the only way off, and you do not have that option; I will see to that. Being who you are, you will suffer at the beginning, before you realize there is no point. But you will realize, eventually. Everyone does.

“As many roads do, ours will start gradual, only to get more difficult the more you refuse its path. It is a simple path, and it is this. You will pay every attention to me and do as I say. When you obey, you will be rewarded. When you refuse, you will be punished. We begin with anticipation, as you see. Do you understand?”

No questions about codes or anything else of Galactica? What the hell?

“Since we have just begun . . . I expect an answer. Do you understand.”

She’s trying to confuse me. Say nothing, nothing.

She takes a needle, hot from the brazier, pulls the little finger from his right hand straight, puts the tip of needle beneath the nail and pushes, all the way.

Hot liquid fire only he can’t get it off! Kicks beneath the table and gasps a choked sound but doesn’t scream. Frak . . . Frak!

She has balanced another needle on the edge of the brazier. Of course, there’s some kind of blue cover on the end she holds so it doesn’t burn her. It’s still burning him, sticking out from under his nail like that, only not so bad now the first surge is over. Only there’s a complaining nerve right across the top of his hand and up his arm.

She stands, slinks (it’s the only word) around the table and to his left side. She pets his head, gods, brushes the hair back from his face. “I don’t like doing this Lee. I wish you wouldn’t make me do this. I have asked no secrets. No one will die or even be injured if you answer. You will not be a traitor to your people.” She is in front of him again. “It is such a simple thing.”

She sits, picks up the needle and the second finger on his right hand. “Please. This one time I will even say, please. Do you understand?”

He can’t. If he starts, who knows where it will end?

This time she pushes slowly, agonizingly so, and he still does not scream, but a low sound comes from between his gnashed teeth and beads of sweat appear on his forehead.

She places another needle onto the brazier and sits back. “I expected you would force me to go through all the lower levels. But one should never rush; it’s not in the best interests of anyone.” She plucks the needle delicately in her fingers and begins again.

His head is flat on the table between his arms; he is slick with sweat. The water he drank is likely drained from him. If she’d just leave him alone; he’d give anything to be left in here alone. He had finally screamed when she clamped the tongs on his first nail and pulled. His shredded fingers are all bleeding into his hair now, every last one, and what comes next?

She pulls his head up by the hair, and she’s holding another glass of water.

“Sit up.” She starts him along by pulling harder.

“Do you want this?”

Gods.

She tips it ever so slowly inches from his face. It dribbles into his lap.

“Do you want this.”

Closes his eyes. Feels it dribble, cold and wet across his stomach, on, on down. Stops. His fingers, his hands throb hot.

She’s doing something with his arm. He looks. She’s swabbing, can smell the alcohol, a needle, a prick, tape, warmth flows in. There’s nothing to be done; he can’t move. She pours the stuff over his fingers, drawing a raspy growl from his throat. His head is grabbed from behind; she closes his nose and pours something down and he coughs. It’s not water, but it is soothing, a little, smells camphorous.

She sits before him once again, her white hands on the table.

He’s very tired, and the throbbing pain makes his mind fuzzy.

“Pay attention.”

Why should he? What does it matter? His eyes close; his head droops.

A slap that nearly knocks him senseless, only it definitely wakes him up.

“Shortly you will be quite aware,” she says. I have given you something to keep you alive and take care of the loss of liquids, although it will not resolve your thirst. We have synthesized a chemical that heightens sensitization, particularly of the nerve endings. You have been given this chemical, along with another that affects emotional centers in the brain. You should be feeling their effects almost immediately.

“I know a lot about you, Lee, more than most of your human associates. We have access to records on Caprica, records of your family, personal and military. Records it is unlikely that no one human ever sees together in their entirety.

“You see how open I am with you? I hide nothing. Yet you refuse me. You think I enjoy doing these things? I learned them from human records. I do nothing that wasn’t done first by one human to another. You think your race deserves to live more than ours. I do this only to find out why.”

She stands again, and he hears the soft flutter of her black, satin trousers as she steps around the table. The fire in his hands brings tears to his eyes, still, he hears her breathe as she bends next to his right ear. “Do you think she ever loved you . . . as much as Zak?”

All breath is out of him, he blinks, takes air in again. Frak her. Frak her, frak her, frak her! Her hand is next to his, so graceful, one long finger reaches under his wrist, light as a feather runs up the underside of his arm and sends an ache so piercingly sharp he moans.

“The stakes are now higher. From here on you must answer, ‘yes, ma’am,’ or ‘no ma’am.’” Her words roar in his ear. “Shall I stop? You have only to say, ‘yes ma’am,’ and I will reward you.”

She shifts behind him, rustling, shushing, the very air moves.

He can only moan when she does the same to his other arm.

“Very well. We shall continue.”

* * *

“The President will see you now.”

Vice President, Thomas Zarek, steps into the office of the President of the Twelve Colonies - and don’t trip, he thinks again, as he always does when coming through a hatch in public. He should be used to it by now. He is used to it, really, but the one time he doesn’t remind himself will be the one time he stumbles. Wouldn’t that be one for President Roslin or the cameras. He nearly grins to himself; actually, it might be useful at the right time and place.

“Tom,” she says over the top of her glasses, twirling a pen between both hands.

“Madam President.” He smiles a little, not too much, and holds out a small box. “I found more of that herbal tea you like.”

She takes it and smiles. “I knew I had at least one good reason for wanting you as my vice president.”

“Only one?”

“I’m having difficulty finding more these days.”

“In that case . . .” He holds forth another box. “I heard about the Tyrols. Perhaps you could give that to the admiral when next you see him. It’s that smokey stuff he prefers.”

“You do have quite a pipeline don’t you. We’ve only just prepared a press release on her death.”

“Knowing what is going on is part of my job, Madam President.”

“Sit down and stop that Madam President guff.”

He smiles and sits.

“You know very well why I have asked you here, don’t you.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“You didn’t really think I was going to believe it was all Eugenia Innes’s idea to stall me on the judicial appointments, did you?

“May I use your line here and say, ‘no comment?’”

“You may say it all you want. It is very obvious to me why you wanted Lee Adama as the member from Caprica. It must have been particularly disappointing when the cylons snatched him out from under your nose.”

“One might say it was a tragedy all around.”

“Of course, it was. And I pray that by some miracle he will be returned to us.”

“Do you really.”

She turns her head just a little, squints at him. “You think I have become very hard, don’t you.” She has both hands clasped in her lap. “I have, Tom. I have to be hard, just as Admiral Adama has to be hard. I can’t afford not to be if we are going to survive. You have no idea how often I wish someone else would take over this job and let me lie down and die in peace. You may say it is my own fault for trusting no one else, but there it is.”

She places her hands on the desk and leans forward. “Surely you realize how dangerous a religious uprising would be at this juncture?”

“Laura, if you give people religious freedom, there won’t be anything to fight about.”

She sits back. “Dear gods, you do sound like Lee Adama now. Haven’t you come a little far for that sort of idealistic nonsense? Some of the most vicious wars in our history were over religion.”

He leans over the desk now, a hand on its surface. “Because people weren’t given that freedom.”

They are both over the desk now. “They can have all the freedom they want once we are safe and free of the cylons.” She says it with all the force she has, which takes everything out of her these days. It takes everything she’s got to take a breath, force a grim smile and keep her hand from shaking as she sits back.

His dark eyes soften, he sits back, as well. “You probably won’t believe this. If we voted today, I’d still want you as president.”

“Isn’t that nice. I’m not sure I’d run.”

“You would.”

“You think I’m some sort of martyr?”

“You believe you are the one meant to lead us; you believe you are right.”

“Holy gods, and you are my vice president.” She’s grinning.

“Checks and balances, Laura. Which is why--”

“You snaked me on the judicial appointments. And I foolishly thought I was going to get your conniving mind to work for me.”

“I have to think of the future, Laura. Consider - do you want a president generations after you to have that kind of power?”

“Of course I am thinking of the present. We may not have a future if we don’t do this now.”

He puts his hands in his lap and takes an audible breath. “We’re back to that, then. Is that the kind of future we want? Is that what we have been fighting and suffering and dying for? Is that what we want for our children?”

“You prefer death? The end of humanity?”

“I prefer the hope of something better. Yes.” He blinks once and meets her eyes across the desk. They look at one another, seconds pass, she leans forward and picks up a pen. He looks at his hands, stands and quietly leaves the room.

The president places an elbow on the desk and, head in hand, closes her eyes with a sigh. If she concentrates, she can feel the soothing vibrations of the engines beneath her feet, can almost feel the air circulating, can hear the hum. One never notices it any longer, it’s so much a part of life; it is life. It will likely be all she knows of life until the end. Life is so precious. You do anything you can to hang onto it. You could be down in the muck and you will hang on. Later, when you are safe, you can worry about beauty and morality and all the rest. But first you have to live.

New BSG Fic

2008-04-30T17:39:29Z

Some unknown muse struck me when the final BSG season began. The little snake has been crawling around under my bed for some months, sitting in the back seat of my car, playing in my shower. It has come out, and now you all out there are going to have to deal with it. Well, not really, only if you want.

This is rather Lee Adama heavy, but I believe nearly everyone is going to show. The fic is being written as BSG runs and is following along for the most part, only is slightly AU as the little snake has its own way and will finish sooner.

Anything but fluffy. Adult, violent situations, thought provoking, I hope, much like BSG.

The Allusory Meaning of the Definition

Lee Adama is dreaming of vanilla and ginger. The smell is so warm and comforting that his lips form a smile and tears of gratitude seep from under his lashes. He’s in their kitchen on Rosemary Avenue where a yellow sun is shining past the curtained window right onto his brother’s dark hair, and Zak’s taking a cookie from Lee’s hand. Zak’s wearing his favorite red tee-shirt with “Nuclear Candi” blazing across the front in orange dayglo lettters. The counter tops and checkered table cloth are the green of leaves that first morning in spring when you take your bike out after winter and ride until your butt is numb and your legs turn to rubber.

Maybe it will be one of the good days, he thinks as he comes around enough to realize where he really is, and that the sweetness in his mouth is merely a fanciful trick of the mind. Some part of him is still there, or part of there is here; he feels it and doesn’t want to open his eyes and lose the little piece that’s left. Not just yet . . . it’s already gone.

“You like that, don’t you.” A sighing murmur in his left ear; her warm breath nearly tickles. It is a her. Kara? No . . . didn’t he leave her on the Galactica just . . . when . . . hours ago? Yesterday? Dee, as well, all of them celebrating and waving farewell.

He smiles, a warmth cruising up his body; everyone, even his father. It had been a little strange, saying goodbye to the past like that, not knowing what was ahead, for practically the first time in his life, and . . . wait . . .

I was thinking, that voice, why can’t --

“You can open your eyes now.” Low, throaty, in his other ear.

I can. Hadn’t realized. Of course, I should have, shouldn’t I? He drags his eyes open. That’s what it feels like . . . sleepy, when you don’t want to wake up.

It is still rather dark, and he can’t see the far end of the room. In fact, he can’t see the walls on either side. Looking down, he sees his bare feet on a dark floor of, possibly metal, only it is warm; the room is warm, only there is no hum or vibration of a ship. It doesn’t smell like a ship. Isn’t that where he should be? And where are his shoes? Above his feet begin what look like sweat pants, only they aren’t his. He would know. Surely he shouldn’t be here; he was supposed to be somewhere in his suit. This is all wrong. Definitely wrong when he tries to step forward and can’t. He’s attached to the wall behind. With something hard, probably metal, and his wrists are sore. Only they hadn’t been until he thought of it. The whole thing is very troubling. He’d rather go back to the dream.

Strong yet tender fingers begin kneading his neck, his shoulder. It feels so wonderful his eyes drift closed again. The voice is in his ear. “It’s all right Lee. Whenever I am here you’ll be fine. I’ll always take care of you.”

That’s nice.

She’s moving; he can hear the swish swish of soft clothing and opens his eyes again to see her only inches away. Gods, she is beautiful. Her skin is flawless; lips glistening; blue eyes searching. Her hands caress his cheeks, so warm and gentle. “You must learn to trust me. We have much to learn from one another. You have to know I want to keep you from what is going to happen, but they won’t let me. I’ll keep trying. Remember that. Don’t ever give up. I’ll come back, and I’ll keep trying to help you. Will you remember?”

She is familiar. He wants to please her; the look on her face - it seems important that he agree, that he remember. “Yes.”

She leans forward and kisses him lightly but firmly on the lips, her honey-blonde hair falls forward to brush his temples.

He watches her walk into the darkness, blue dress swaying, no sound of a hatch, nothing.

Remember, remember, only it’s hard to retain a thought. She looked so familiar. It’s because . . . because . . . . Gods, she’s a cylon and he’s . . . not where he’s supposed to be. He can’t think right; he hasn’t been thinking right. He’s drugged, that’s why. Adrenaline, panic, three heavy, deep, fast breaths, a pull against the restraints and he drops his head.

Use your brain, fool. The drugs must be wearing off. You’re a prisoner of the cylons. That’s it; it has to be. You’ve been trained for this. Trained to resist drugs, too. You’ve got nothing to tell them. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh gods, I’m on a cylon ship. How long? How long have I got? How did they do it? It doesn’t matter. Don’t make fool of yourself. All that matters now is how you go. They probably think I know a lot because I’m Adama’s son. Because I was a commander. A cag. Gods. How long will it go on? Admit how scared you are. That’s first. Damned scared. I’m no frakkin’ hero. Remember your training. Say nothing. Don’t even start. Don’t get smart. Say nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Scream all you want, but say nothing.

Her kiss . . . it was ginger and vanilla.

* * *

Colonel Saul Tigh hesitates before before tapping his calloused knuckles on the hatch to Admiral Adama’s quarters. He grits his teeth when he hears the gruff “enter” and steps within. He’s been the bearer of so much bad news to this man and wonders how they manage to remain good friends in spite of it. Maybe because there is no one else.

The red pattern in the rug glows softly in the dim light of the overhead. The Admiral sits with his hands on the edge of his desk, arms stiff and straight as if to push it away, or perhaps to steady himself. His face is all sharp highlights and deep crags in the light of the desk lamp. Tigh refuses to look at the hands that are likely clutching there, perhaps too tightly.

“What have you found?” His chin is tucked; his eyes glare, daring the colonel to disappoint him.

“The four who traded guard duty the last three days swear nothing was said about Lee’s departure within the cylon’s hearing. Nothing was ever discussed in the brig at all.”

“You believe them? One hundred percent?”

“I put those four on duty myself. You know how I feel about that thing, Bill. I have the utmost faith in those men.”

“Even if she did know, how could she possibly have contacted them?” Colonel Tigh hadn’t realized President Roslin was there, silent until now, in the chair in the shadows to the left of the desk. “Wouldn’t they have to be in the same sector? Surely we would have known if they were.”

“It’s possible a raider could have escaped detection. Unlikely, but possible.” The colonel didn’t like admitting that, but so many civilian ships had to be spread out, and there were only a limited number of pilots out there at any one time in as many patched up vipers and raptors as could be kept flying. Luck had been on their side, so far.

“They attacked only to take that one raptor without destroying it. They knew exactly who was in it, and she’s the only one who could have told them.” Adama stares at the photograph on his desk, then up at the colonel. “I want her airlocked immediately.”

Roslin is on her feet. “You can’t! I won’t allow it!”

“She is a danger to this fleet!”

“It’s not the fleet you’re worried about, it’s revenge! You don’t know it’s her, you’re only guessing. She cares about Hera, more than anything. It’s why she’s here; she knows the child is only safe with us. Why would she do anything to endanger her? She would no more do such a thing than Athena would!”

Adama grips the desk even harder, maybe as hard as his lips are now pressed together in a grim down turned line - the voice that puckers his subordinates’ under drawers. “You dare speak to me of revenge.”

She takes a breath, folds her hands and sits. Speaks calmly this time. “Well, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it.”

Adama releases the desk, sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath of his own. Tigh has seen him do this before - gather himself, the forced calm while the mind furiously takes routes not previously explored. “Obviously, then, you suspect some other cylon activity on at least one of our ships.”

“Obviously. She has already told me there are five more and she believes they are nearby. Only I had the impression they were not like the others. They may not want the human race wiped out.”

The colonel is breathing slow and deep, trying to make his heart rate normal.

“They merely want my son.” One hand lies on the desk, a pen grasped tightly, thumb rubbing its tip. He looks from it to her face.

“I don’t know, Bill. I don’t think she does either. But I’ll talk to her. There is something . . . .” She gives him a look, a quirk of her mouth, lowers her head, raises it. “Anyway, let me try; it can’t hurt.”

* * *

Colonel Tigh had managed to get both Tory and Chief Tyrel alone, and both of them denied any contact with the enemy.

The enemy, he thinks, as he knocks back the ambrosia in the privacy of his quarters. What if the enemy is us, is me? Tyrel had brought it up, that they might not remember, and he had debunked it. Of course, he had. Only now, back in his quarters and alone, he can’t help but think it. Anders is gone now, there is always that possibility. But the man was so worried about being a cylon already, practically a nervous wreck when he’d thought the raider had discovered him. No, if it was anyone, Tyrel and I are the first to know the schedules. Exactly what raptor is going where, when and who is on it. There is a part of me who is glad to see the last of Bill Adama’s son. That boy has been a flea in my pants since he’d come aboard with his holier-than-thou attitude. Let alone that time he put a gun . . . holy gods. Another shot of ambrosia that burns going down. I couldn’t have, could I? Surely not. I am an officer in Colonial Fleet!

A cylon; I’m a cylon.

Never. I wouldn’t do that to Bill. Never. He sits, one hand grasping the half-full bottle, the other around the empty glass.

* * *

Its a small, yet elegant, room, covered in the luxurious gold brocades and rich velvets of a sumptuous bygone era. The light is low and unseen except for the glow from a small globe on a circular table where the three sit on deep pillows.

“This is a little . . . eccentric . . . don’t you think?” he says.

“We find the contrast provocative and rather comforting at times,” she says.

“We aren’t here to discuss the decor.” Their third member shifts impatiently on her pillow.

“You should cultivate patience, Six.   It’s all going to happen as it has been written, as it has happened before. You should know.” He sits cross-legged to her left; his hands lie at ease on his thighs.

“I am tired of hearing that, as though your part should be enough for the rest of us. You believe a human loves you, yet you cannot tell us what love is. Love is defined as strong affection, tenderness and devotion based on common interests. What part of that applies to you and the human, Kara Thrace? She killed you over and over, yet you say you love her.” Her hands are fists on the table. There are deep lines between her eyes, and the muscles around her chin are taut, yet the words are clear and controlled.

“We believe God wants us to produce children, and the only way we can do it is with humans. Our one hope, the only child we had, is gone. Gone because she could not survive without the love of her true mother. We have learned she would never have survived at all without the love of the two that had made her.   We still do not understand this love or why it is so important, or how it has come between us and our own kind.” She peers at the globe. “Now we are in the midst of a civil war, and you tell me to be patient.”

He places a hand on one of hers. “Love cannot be defined, only experienced. I understand your need for clarification. But do you really believe you can learn anything from the prisoner?”

“I don’t know; I have to try.”

“To adapt him, reprogram him according to what we have learned, that’s one thing, but this other, I doubt it is possible.”

“You said you would not interfere, as long as I played my part.”

“I only express doubt. If God has placed him in our hands for the reason you say, then anything is possible.”

“Good.” She turns to her twin, whose hair is lighter and twisted severely on top of her head. “Can you do this again?”

“Certainly. You know how repulsive I found it originally. I admit it has been difficult . . . wondering why God wants us to have children with creatures who would do such things to their own kind. This love you speak of, perhaps it is the explanation. I hope so, for I wish this to be the last time. The process has become too intriguing, and I find myself looking forward to it far too much.”

The first reaches her hands across the table and they join hands on either side of the globe. “Sister, I, too, wish some other way. Only, if this be God’s will, if we find what we seek, all will come right in the end. We may understand the path we are to take.”

The single male watches them, their faces golden masks in the soft light of the globe. An identical tear tracks down the left cheek of each identical, beautiful mask. It is obvious they have already become contaminated by human contact, just as he has. They all have; none are immune. Why don’t they see it? They believe they are going to make Adama theirs, get this information from him. But contact is like energy, it runs both directions.

Perhaps that is God’s plan, as well.

Fathers and Sons - mostly

2008-04-12T22:37:42Z

That subject because that's where I am in my novel - father is being manipulative, but he's doing it for the boy's own good, right? Must remember to write the consequences later, when his son discovers the truth.

Had to stop writing this a.m. in order to prepare my tax form for being a writer. Is that a conundrum?

Just started reading Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead.

Favorite movie I have seen recently: "Into the Wild." Well, we live out there, ourselves, and watch nearly everything when it arrives on Netflix.

Here's a quote by some anonymous Christian in the 1800's: Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in everything and hears Him in the wind."

Hmmm.

Writing

2008-04-10T16:40:12Z

Info of dubious interest filched out of the March-April issue of "Mental Floss" magazine.

Completed fiction written really fast: A team of 40 German authors got together on World Book Day in 2003. They each wrote two pages, and the finished product was corrected and printed before the day was over.

Really slow: The German writer Goethe began working on his literary opus, Faust, in 1772. It was finally published in full in 1832 - the year of his death.

Does this have anything to do with our fast-paced world?

Of course, one wonders what the stories are behind the lines printed out of context. These days, a person could go on line and find the answers, if one took the time. Back to the face-paced world, again.

April, and it has snowed AGAIN.

Novelin90 Short Story

2008-04-01T01:33:30Z

Put together a couple excerpts from my novel so this short story would make some sense, at least I hope it does.

Happy April Fool's everyone.

    Kev and Nik began jogging together last spring, on the trail along Ebbett’s Field and old Route 6 that went past Gruber’s farm.   When she dared him to take the road along the tracks south of town, they knew they’d do it. They’d had to jump broken glass and beer bottles and gotten whistles and honeyed calls from four guys lounging on tottery porch steps as they jogged by.   Nik waved. She swore one was female. Later, he’d asked her why she liked to do such things.

   “I don’t know.” She had absently scratched deep into the fur on the back of Morgan’s neck. “I want to know what it’s like. Don’t you ever feel like we’re the ones in jail? There’s so much that we have no idea about. I don’t want to not see things because I’m afraid. I don’t want to not see people because I’m afraid. You see?” She grinned and looked straight into his eyes. He saw.

    Kev has two new friends at school who recently moved to Redfree from the city. Bo is a math whiz; it was obvious the first week. Max is no dummy either, and he’s huge, not fat, huge. Kev, Jackie Cooms, Alex Danner, and Coy Zinsser are always the first chosen for teams, but soon, Bo and Max join them. Kev is a little small, but he plays hard and fast. Bo is tall, skinny and all ropey muscle. Max, well, Max can move that weight around like nobody’s business.

   Kev has been over to Bo’s house and Bo to his, but he hasn’t introduced Nik yet.   He’s mentioned her without disclosing she’s a girl, only that she goes to school at Mattland and they’ve been best friends since forever. It’s always been a contention with her that being female is of no concern, and it would feel like a betrayal to bring it up, so he hasn’t. Somehow, the pronouns, “he” or “she,” never came up either. Each of his friends is important to him; each is special. They have to meet.

   He’s not afraid about them getting together for a tossball game, only a little nervous. He’s told each about the other, except for that one particular. They’re meeting at the park and, as soon as Kev sees Nik out there on the grass, rambling around in circles tossing the ball, this relaxation settles over him. He often gets all worried and nervous about something, sometimes for days, but at the last minute when nothing more can be done, relief seeps in, and it’s full bore ahead. Right now he’s looking forward to everyone’s reactions. In fact, he’s downright excited.

Max and Bo come trotting faster when they see him wave from the field. Lots of “heys!” and hand-slapping, then,

“This is Nik.”

“Hi.”

    He wants to stand back and watch their faces. It takes a couple extra seconds to recover, and Kev has this urge to giggle, no, snicker. Only girls giggle, right? But not Nik. She catches on, but then does what he didn’t expect . . . as usual.

   “I brought the ball.” She holds it out delicately on her fingertips. “Kev said we pick teams, so can I have Max since he’s big and I’m a girl?”

He has never heard her speak in that voice, sort of airy and sweet. Bo and Max look confused.

   “Yeah,” says Max. “I’ll be your teammate.” It’s like he’s hypnotized or something, and she gives him this big, flirty smile.

   Bo gives Kev a squint-eyed look when they move off to mark the goal lines. Bo will never trust him again; he’s sure of it.

    Max gets away with the first goal, and Nik jumps up and down screaming like a little cheerleader. She keeps this persona up until Bo has the ball, tears down the field with it, and she’s the only one close enough to catch him. He prances down there without a care in the worlds, until the old Nik comes at him from behind and rams him full speed ahead in the calves.   The ball pops loose, she rolls away, grabs it, then rushes back down the field, barely avoiding Kev by tossing the ball to Max, who makes the second score.

    She ambles back, a grin and grass on her face. Bo limps up.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Sure.”

   Max holds out his hand. “Two to zero.”

She slaps it. “Yaz.”

Books to Read

2008-03-28T20:49:55Z

I've nearly lost this list twice now, so I won't lose it here . . . yes? Somewhere, persons, other books, mags and numerous mysterious sources have noted these as excellent authors/novels for reading:

The Speed of Dark by Eliza Moon; White Horses and Angel Landing by Alice Hoffman (she's one of my favorites); Wild Seed by Octavia Butler. Plus Jill McCorkle, Anita Shreve and Richard Brautigan.

Anyone read them? I've loved everything I've read by Alice Hoffman, especially "Here on Earth" and "Turtle Moon."

A favorite sci fi is Maria Doria Russell's "The Sparrow" and "Children of God." Plus anything by Ursula Leguin and C. J. Cherryh. Then there's Jacqueline Carey's "Kushiel" series.

I do love male authors, too. Of course, Asimov, Clarke, Bradbury, etc. Plus the strange Mr. Delaney; my favorite is "Dahlgren, which I have read three times.

This is turning into a sort of Meme, so I will stop. Any suggestions out there?

Current State of Affairs

2008-03-27T18:11:05Z

I generally try to stay out of politics, except when it comes time to vote and, even then, generally feel rather helpless these days. Even so, I remain hopeful, a believer that each person must do what they can, regardless of the fact that it sometimes seems nearly useless. If we each gave up our small part, it certainly would be useless, so I keep trying. That's all there is, isn't it.

I read this post recently, and this person expressed my feelings much better than I ever could, so I have to put a link to it from my journal. It's a comment on this fifth spring since the war began, and I expect I don't need to mention which war.

Spring arrives, once again.

The Mexican Riviera

2008-03-25T17:24:21Z

I'm not sure for whom I'm writing this. I'm likely the only one whoever reads it. In case not - beware the Mexican Riviera!

Just got back and, unless you want to spend oodles at the newest copy of Disneylandish Riviera scam, don't go. Well, with caveats. Paradise can still be found, but it takes some looking. Beware car rental (particularly Hertz) and condominium scams.

If you have to stay in Cancun (and I wouldn't out of choice), El Rey del Caribe is about as close as you can get to not being in the middle of a big city. It's reasonable ($80 a night for a king bed, inc. continental breakfast), near the bus terminal, and all rooms surround a beautiful garden with a constantly tinkling fountain and pool.

Find the lovely Isla Holbox a three hour bus ride north of Cancun. It's a yet unspoiled fishing village that is fast disappearing along with many other small islands on our precious planet. If you crave a tranquil beach and nothing much to do but loll about in a hammock outside your own palm-roofed cabina, check out Villas Chimay. Petra makes a lovely breakfast every morning, and the orange juice and fresh fruit are . . . aaaaaah. Please don't mind the large iguanas and compost toilets.

South of Cancun is one fancy, overblown condominium development and resort complex after another. What used to be the lovely fishing village of Playa del Carmen has become a city complete with shopping centers, MacDonald's and Home Depot.

We made it to Tulum where there are more resorts than we could count, but at least they are small, hidden within the jungle, and everything is powered by solar or wind turbines. Be warned. Nothing is cheap here. Expect to pay at least as much as you would anywhere in the States. EXCEPT: One little place a hitchhiker we picked up told us about. It's a taqueria on the west side of the highway from Cancun about a block from the main intersection between the pueblo of Tulum and the road to the beach. The reasonable supermarket is right there on the corner. This place has the best fish tacos I have ever had in my life! A whole filet in each one, and they melt in your mouth - $1.50 each. Lordy, I want one right now.

We stayed six nights in a cabina on the beach at Diamante K. White sand, aqua water, mosquito nets, breeze, plenty of hammocks and shady palms, lots of little palm topped cabinas, amazing Mayan-style carvings and bronze statues. Whoever originally built this place was very creative, mucho talent. Great restaurant and beach bar, although it could get a little loud at night if you wanted to sleep, but electricity was turned off at eleven. We had breakfast served on the beach one morning - the height of luxury. We were on vacation, you know.

Took a drive and exploration south through the biosphere of Sian Ka'an to the fishing village of Punta Allen with a couple we met and hung out with. All four of us decided if we came back, we would stay here the whole time. This place is still unspoiled and very beautiful. No fancy restaurants and wild parties though, so if that's what you want . . . .

Beach walks, eating, snorkeling in a cenote (freshwater pools inland), eating, making new friends, exploring, eating, hammock dozing, sunning, eating, swimming, writing, reading, eating. Yeah, we gained a few pounds.

I'm relaxed, refreshed, recharged. How long will it last?

Til next time.

One Foggy, Foggy Night, Part II

2008-03-01T17:25:51Z

Here is Part II of One Foggy, Foggy Night.

She had dropped the braid and kissed him. If he had lost, he wondered what Karl was going to get as the winner. More than a kiss, he supposed. Even the kiss was . . . he could tell no one, ever. What could he say? She was a professional beyond anything he could have imagined. He had been her only love; she, the source of all rapture and delight. As he lays his head back, closes his eyes and revels in the hot, soaking water, he knows that isn’t true. But it had been true at the time.

The spice is strong in here. His butt stung when he first got in, but it’s numb now; she had put something on the welt. The kiss had been worth it. Lee smiles at his earlier reaction. Seeing Mystery just then and what she had held had done it. He could handle a lot, even a little biting, but he wasn’t into that kind of thing. Of course, he’d never tried it but, no. Some things you didn’t have to try to know you didn’t want them. Did Karl?

Karl scoots to his left so that the jet hits his lower back right . . . there. Aah. Karl likes pleasure. If it feels good, do it. A little pain, maybe, if it makes the pleasure better, like right now. Would this feel so good if they hadn’t been hanging onto those rings for so long? Nope. Lords, that had been wild . . . and exciting. You bet. He had never been one to hide from himself. If he had to be here with another man, he couldn’t ask for anyone more pleasing to look at than Lee Adama. Only the Cadet Adama Karl knows is bound to be a little gun shy, though he has been surprised at how far the man has hung in. It must be the spice and the woman. Sahmain is incredible. And that kiss. Karl had nearly stroked himself watching them. Only the leather clad woman standing silently opposite had caught his eye. She had stood there in the dark shadow of the cowl that hid her face. Her arm, a flick of her hand had slithered the long, shiny lash across the floor until it licked around his toes.

The sound of a low-toned chime.

“Onward into battle,” Karl says as he heaves out of the tub, water runeling onto the tile.

“Battle. You haven’t been struck yet.” Lee grabs a towel.

“I’ll take the award for the wound any day.”

They walk side-by-side through yet another velvet drape.

“What do you suppose she means by the sun and moon thing?” says Lee.

“I think we’re about to find out.”

Sahmain sits exquisitely balanced on one ring, one leg flexed, toes against the opposite arc. Her other leg curves down, foot arched. In her hands are two glasses of dark wine. The ring glides languidly back and forth; strips of deepest red silk flutter in the moving air around her thigh and calf.

“Is she real?” whispers Lee.

“You tell me. You kissed her.”

“Aah, my Moon and Sun.” Her toe touches the carpet; she hands them each a glass. Tiny flutes this time and wine so dark as to be nearly black. She takes her own glass from the floor, raises it to her lips, and with a smile it is gone in one swallow.

Suspicion? Of course, but Karl decided hours ago. Decision made, no hesitation.

Lee? The bouquet alone is heady, a second’s hesitation. Another day, another time, perhaps not. But this night, withall, he drinks.

Sahmain throws her glass across the floor and stands within the ring, legs and arms spread. It has begun to turn away. “Is Sun still able to rise?”

So this is how the game begins. Merely the thought of leaping up there against her, no silly leotard now, is already getting a rise from Lee. It’s easy, like flying, especially with that hot energy now pulsing from deep in his groin. He grabs the arc above her hands, and his feet are in the stirrups below hers and . . . aah gods, it’s molten fire against her flesh, her firm breasts, her mouth and tongue at his neck, his chin, his lips . . . anything, anything. He tries to grasp her but the ring is turning and he nearly loses his balance. The only way is hands and feet planted, and that must be the game. If she thinks he can’t take her like this, dear gods. She’s slightly taller, which allows her more movement and she uses her whole body: brushing, stroking, nuzzling, gods. Her tongue licks the inside of his bottom lip, she takes it, sucks, her teeth. Don’t, please don’t pull away. He tries to follow but she’s gone.

He opens his eyes and she’s standing below him in front of the fire he’s now facing, and the ring is still. He can feel the heat from fifteen feet away, or is it coming from within? He starts to follow her but . . . he can’t. He’s . . . he pulls. Glances up at his hands and they’re secured with those velvet decorations. As are his feet. To his right is Mystery, as silent as ever.

He’s breathing hard because his heart is pumping fast. It’s from a distance though, and he knows he’s clenching his fists but that seems distant too. She’s there; her hands are at his sides, tracing his ribs, Sahmain.

“It’s allright, Sun. No regrets, remember?”

Her eyes look nearly black, but there are green spires in there he could sink into. She’s holding his eyes; her hands are caressing him with so much love. There’s no such thing as love in such a place. There isn’t. Money buys the best, and that’s what she is. But this place, this night are all that exist right now, and he has to believe her. After all, that’s the game, isn’t it.

Karl has been watching from back here, beyond the firelight, and finds it curious that he hasn’t felt in the least left out. He’s always been a patient man, and Moon doesn’t rise every night, after all. Is Mystery always the observer? Does the play build her hunger as it does his, as he expects it’s meant to? If he had to give up one of the five senses, it would be the sense of smell, or maybe taste. Never sight. Or touch.

The man has a beautiful ass.

“Come, Moon.” Sahmain commands him from next to the ring, her dark shadow reaching across the carpet toward him, dancing in the light of the fire. The ring, the “X” in the center made by Adama’s body stretches on the floor next to her. Karl’s heart thumps in anticipation of his part in this next play.

She waits, her arms open as he moves to her. “The ever enduring Moon.”

It’s his turn, now. A reward for waiting, worth waiting for. He doesn’t even have to bend for she’s the perfect size. Her lips, her tongue, her hands, her body entire. She makes love, yes, makes love with everything, and he never even gets inside her, except for her mouth, that unbelievable mouth. Yet, there’s an end, even to this.

“We’ve only begun,” she’s says, holding his hand. She leads him, hot, so hot, toward the fire, then turns.

Holy Zeus. He’d never thought. Well, he should have. But it’s different here in the firelight, closer, in front. Adama’s so . . . vulnerable, and . . . frak. Karl swallows. Swallows again.

She’s behind him like before, and her hands are stroking his hipbones, the hollows in front, her fingers so close, then up, down, caressing. She whispers in his ear.

“Glorious, is he not? Only once in a great while does Moon eclipse Sun. Does the bloom become ripe for the picking. Never fear. I know your wants; I know your needs. Both. No need for denial here. We merely serve.”

Heat is on his back as Sahmain strolls across the carpet and behind the ring. It swings a little as she steps up behind Adama, only one arm carries the lash in an arc above the ring to land at Karl’s feet. He focuses on the tip, at the little whiskers as it begins to drag and he follows like a cat with a toy, until it whips away with a loud crack and there’s an incredible hot sting above his left nipple and he gasps. He looks there, a tiny trickle of blood, nearly black in the candlelight. He touches it, tastes, and looks at her - a close-mouthed smile beneath the glittering ruby mask alongside the man’s wide-eyed stare; an erotic prickling flows down Karl’s body. Her arms lie possessively over Adama’s shoulders, one hand splayed across his chest, the other hangs low, the lash lying sinuously across the floor. In spite of the sharp pain, Karl remains fervid with desire. In fact, he has never felt so powerful.

She draws the lash, the whiskers tickle Adama’s right foot and rest a moment at the arch. Karl steps closer; the tip of his shadow licks the end of the lash. Adama’s skin shines red-gold in the firelight; he has begun breathing deep, chest rising and falling. His eyes close, mouth opens, his head rolls against hers as Sahmain’s index finger grazes around and over his left nipple. Her tongue teases his right ear, yet her eyes are on Karl. The lash is moving again, sliding up the inside of Adama’s right leg, his thigh, yes, right there, and Karl’s own phallus jumps, his breath catches. The whiskers roll across stomach, creep up his chest to prickle across the right nipple; a low whimper, clenched fists, and Karl can stand no more.

He’s seen this man and his frakking control. So good at everything, yet won’t let loose. Even drinking, never enough to lose it altogether. Never. So cold, so by the book. So gods damn perfect.

His own big hands are on that slick, well-defined body, and it’s all his. Karl’s going to make him lose it tonight. He’s going to make him want and he’s going to make him beg. They’ll know afterward, no matter what happens, they’ll always know. Sahmain will make sure it happens just this way because he won and this is his night. He’s the Moon and the Bee and he’s going to take honey from this flower, right now.

Teasing and anticipation are not what men are generally into, but Karl knows how to use them when he wants, and he wants now. There is only one minor interruption. Karl is at the height of his tease, stops to take a breath, and there is that crack again. Adama pushes forward into his face and yelps. Karl knows what it is, poor boy. He reaches back there, “ssss” from above and, sure enough, blood on his fingers. Karl stands then. Adama’s eyes, lordy, so blue, are wet. He is really way too pretty like this. Karl presses his red finger on Adama’s, well shit, Lee’s, lower lip, drags it down to his chin and curls it away.

“Taste,” Karl says, lowly.

The tip of Lee’s tongue runs across there.

“Salty,” Lee says, quietly.

Karl has to, leans in to that mouth, yes, salty, but it isn’t blood, it is sweat and . . . wine and spice and something else. The man, himself and, of course, his own salt honey. Karl wants to stay up here, grasp the man, continue, but if he does, he will never finish what he has started. This can come later, he hopes, and steps away and Lee, Lee, now, is looking at him with swollen lips. Ah gods. He’d better be careful, or the wrong person will be begging.

Squirm, squirm, you mother. Lee can’t move far, but he is trying. Karl is grasping those preciously tight buttocks to keep him in place. He can even apply a little pain if he fingers the slash, but he doubts Lee feels it by now, or it adds to the sensations. It certainly isn’t slowing anything. A nice round lick, “What do you want, Lee, tell me, more?”

“Frak,” he breathes out. “Please.”

“Please, Moon, please Karl.”

“Shit.”

Oh, what a sucker. A nice long, pull and drag ought to do it. Plus a little flick at the end.

“Gods. Please Moon, please Karl.”

Such moans and little noises, “Hah, ah, ah” rising, pumping, gasping, jerking.

His mouth a magnet hauling Lee’s center from the ring; here it comes; no denying such sweet, carnal honey.

Even Karl is breathing hard. He leans back on his elbows and surveys his accomplishment. All limp like a wet . . . not a rag, hardly. Even more delicious now the outer surface is gone, like an apple that’s been peeled. It’ll be nice to remember this the next time Lee Adama spouts some regulation or gives him and Kara that reproachful look when he helps them up from some beer-encrusted floor .

He spies her out of the corner of his left eye - Mystery. Her breasts are heaving. So. This game has proved entertaining for her, as well. The arena yet reeks of desire.

Lee has closed his eyes, totally drained, yet tingling. Becomes aware of the ache in his arms, the burn in his wrists and, sting, it certainly does sting back there. A soft hand glides down his spine, continues, makes him pucker, travels his inner leg to his left ankle. He opens his eyes and sees Karl close, and the big man’s hands are untying his hands. Sahmain has untied his feet, and he steps down into Karl’s arms because he stumbles, and Karl is there and holds him.

“This will help,” she says behind him, and something cool and damp is applied to his buttock; her hand caresses, that touch she has, and he leans into Karl, forehead on his collar bone, and it’s okay. He would never have done this before. He will never do it again. He has never known how much he wanted to . . . to just . . . be. He steps back.

“I hope you’re satisfied, Moon.”

“Me?” A toothy smile. “You’re the one who looks debauched. I’ve just gotten started.”

“Then let’s play.” Sahmain is on the bed. It’s amazing how she can disappear when they haven’t noticed, and appear elsewhere. She’s lying on satin, arms high, holding onto a thick braided rope of silk that hangs from above.

“Last in’s a rotten egg,” says Karl, and strides forward.

Lee is in no hurry. He’s recuperating.

It feels so nice to crawl into the cool satin. The mattress is soft, but not too soft; the many pillows are a luxury. He won’t mind relaxing here and watching the two of them. As his mother would say (if she would ever be in such a situation, gods forbid,) it could be quite delightful. He’s never been a voyeur but, tonight, it’s all novel, isn’t it. The same way it’s all just a little surreal. Only if you took the prefix, “sur” alone, it means “over” or “above.” Certainly not less than real, rather, more than, over-real. Which is how it has seemed at times, each and every sensation more so--

Holy . . .

She dangles from the rope by her legs, teasing Karl, who is lying below, flat on his back. The rule is he can’t rise, nevertheless, he might have had her several times, but he’s laughing, enjoying this, too. Not for long, though, judging by the way the game is proceeding. His laughs turn lower, his grasps more fervent.

This last dare - she hangs from above stretched to the fullest; her long, pink tongue strokes the man’s phallus, yet her eyes are on Lee, who is no longer relaxed in the pillows, but leaning forward, breathing deep. Karl’s near hand is fisted in the sheets near Lee’s foot. Karl sighs, moans when she takes the tip in her lovely mouth. Lee has begun to swell in sympathy.

“Help me. You know you want to.”

He does? Is that a command, an offer or a request? He’s already there and peering down . . . down on Karl, for a change. The man’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is an open invitation. It’s time to find out what it’s like to run this thing, be the one to lean in, put his hand in the man’s hair and pull his head back and . . . kiss him. Finish what Moon has started, and slide a hand across the broad chest and make him hum against the roof of Lee’s mouth. It certainly works; it works very well. In both directions . . . even.

One hand in Lee’s hair, a strong palm at his back, pulling him in, vaguely aware of Sahmain drifting above. Somehow a leg each has gotten tangled together and their groins pressed hard, hard and careful simultaneously, intuitively.

He’s maneuvered up and back and down, flat on the satin sheets beneath the bigger man. Maybe he should be pissed, but he’s not. It feels too good. The satin, the tongue, the hand charging the inside of his thigh. He even likes grasping hard, as hard as he wants and not having to worry about it. Dear gods it’s such a relief to not plan, to not think, to not be the one who’s responsible. To release all restraint, to finally surrender.

Karl, all intoxicated and pleading murmurs, “I want . . . I want you . . . to turn, now. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

His heart thuds. He trusts Karl, or he wouldn’t be here like this. Besides, he can’t refuse the way those big hands have set him on fire, Sahmain alongside nibbling, biting his ear.

In a dark niche to the side of the fireplace, feet apart, hands clutched before her, Mystery stands silent witness.

Karl believes Lee slipped inside Sahmain a moment ago; he’s sure when he feels muscled buttocks begin a soothing ebb and flow against his belly. It feels so warm, so slick, so full and unbelievably good, and his stomach clutches in reaction. He’s filling up; he might pass out with all the blood that’s abandoning his head, his extremities, rushing to converge in one place, already gathering forces eager for plunder.

Sahmain’s legs are wrapped high around Lee’s back. Lee leans forward to kiss her, and it takes precious seconds for Karl’s hand to scrabble blindly for the lubricant somewhere to his right. He leans over and runs a palm along the man’s chest and abdominals. He doesn’t want to hurry. He can even reach in there and find Lee’s finger on her pearl, so considerate. He, too, had better let her go first. He doesn’t plan for Lee to be capable later.

Karl knows he’s good at this and considerate, himself. He has to be. Just because he’s big doesn’t mean he’s an oaf. To the contrary, he loves small, delicate things. He was always bringing home the bird with a broken wing or a bedraggled, lost kitten. His wasn’t an easy childhood, but he had love, family he could depend on. Maybe that’s why he’s the steady one, the one people trust.

His long fingers carefully penetrate, explore pink and tight; he’s causing those tremors, those hot gasps of pleasure. And it’s so vulnerable, so sweet, so perfect in his hands as he eventually probes the sensitive entrance, slides into exquisite warmth that drives up his belly.

Easy, easy rocking, a little further in and another gasp, a hold, a slight course change, and it’s all good as Lee moans low and they begin again. Karl licks moist heat from the man’s back, runs teeth over his spine and leaves his own moan there as Lee plunges deeper, drives faster, and Karl joins in short movements, just enough. His palms, fingers stroke from hipbones over tight, clutching abdominals and back again, all slick with sweat.

Sahmain’s fingers curl in Karl’s hair; he breathes into Lee’s neck. She growls, gasps rise and, at the top, pulls hard enough to hurt. as Lee pulses in stiff-armed support, clutching fingers making satin fans of the sheets. Karl grins through clenched teeth. It’s his signal to proceed with total intent and purpose.

Karl’s fingers clasp around the front of Lee’s hips, in that hollow place, thumb in back, to slow him down; he groans and shivers, a few short exhalations, a deep breath, and Karl times it just right, a slow dive in deep and there’s a breathy moan from both of them, sweet Aphrodite, together, yes, just like that, and he moves out and in and they are as one, and Karl’s head drops back and he stretches and wants to howl like some kind of animal, rejoicing; he loves this man right now, an elemental love, curls into him and emits a close-mouthed sigh, and they rock a little faster. He rolls forward and stretches his arms over the man’s back as far as he can reach, through his hair, and Lee’s head rises and he opens his mouth, “aaaah,” shoulders roll, and Karl’s fingers stroke deep down slick back muscles and he plunges faster and knows he’s hitting that spot - there’s a higher sound now, a sob, a snarl, and Lee is pushing harder, huffing, and Sahmain is coming along again for the ride, leaving red channels in Lee’s shoulders. There’s no words, only sounds, animal sounds, primal.

She’s a song, a high, rippled soprano, a droning sigh. Lee cries, “gaaa,” pants, shudders; his center spasms out of control. The prurient cry, the clamping muscle brings Karl to his own hoarse call and jerky, potent finish.

Three lie side-by-side, spent, stuporous. Sahmain is first to rise, places a soft kiss on each man’s lips, slides from the bed and glides from the room, somewhere into the dark shadows.

Karl would like to roll to his left and hold Lee. He’s always like this after having good sex, be it with a man or a woman. Women usually welcome it; men generally don’t. This man probably wouldn’t. Even though there have been signs he might - that was earlier. The spice, the drink is probably wearing off. Adama has already gone way beyond his boundaries. Karl had better not push it.

Lee wonders if the fire is going out; the air seems cooler. It’s probably just the sweat drying on his skin. He wouldn’t mind snuggling into Karl, but the man would think him a fool. The night’s about over, and he wishes it wasn’t. In a few hours his life will go back to normal, and he’s not sure he wants it to. It’s probably the spice that makes him think this way. A shower and back in his clothes, he’ll likely feel . . . normal.

* * *

The two men are tired, achy, when they walk back down the alley to raise a cab. The fog has dissipated; mauve puddles reflect sky above dark buildings.

Karl yawns. “Do you think we made a mistake coming here?”

“A mistake? What do you think?” Lee is trying hard not to let the yawn get to him; it’s a twisted smile he gives Karl.

“I’m thinking we shouldn’t tell Kara anything.”

“Are you kidding? Not a thing.”

“She may have some idea, since she sent us. Sahmain and the leather. And she’ll be an awful pest about it.”

“Let her. We just have to stand tight until she gets tired or finds something else.”

Only when they meet, neither have ever seen Kara blush and smile quite that way, and she never asks.

Finis

BSG Slashathon Challenge

2008-03-01T16:52:58Z

Here's a new story written for a BSG Slashathon challenge.

Slash is new for me, and I nearly couldn’t do it, until I found a way not to take myself too seriously. Then it was too darned much fun - in several ways. A few nods to Wiccan and to Mr. Poe. At times, it was hard to get my tongue out of my cheek. Oh, it’s a wee bit kinky, too.

Takes place second year of Academy, which makes them about nineteen, and they haven’t yet received call signs. Obviously not canon.

Turned out to be a little long, so it's posted in two parts.

One Foggy, Foggy Night

    The cab driver seemed to recognize the address when Karl said, “Number Nine Beltane Street.”

    “Yes, sir.” They could practically see him smiling around the “sir” part, and he lay rubber into the traffic which dwindled considerably as they took darker and darker streets to get to wherever they were going. It was strange how the fog seemed to get thicker and thicker, the street lights further and further apart, how they glowed eerily in the dank air.

    “First time for you boys?”

    “Why do you ask?” Lee wanted to ask for what, but he already felt an idiot for falling into this situation in the first place.

    “You don’t look the type.”

    Karl leaned forward in the seat. “What type is that?”

    The vehicle stopped under a street light, and the driver got out and opened the door, which was unusual. Surely he didn’t expect that kind of tip from them. They could see him now under the shadowed light: tall and cadaverous; he gave them a grin that Lee could only think of as wicked. Lee wanted to be rid of him asap, so didn’t worry about how much he was handing over or his change.

    “Thank you so much. And have a very good time . . . or, rather, as you please, sirs.” One long arm curved toward a dark alley, fingers gracefully gesturing. “That way.”

    After the cab left, they stood in a silent, misty circle of light and peered into the darkness. A raspy, “arrrrrr” from above, a rackety flutter cast water spray on the two. They peered up at the street light , and there on the iron bar next to the lamp perched a huge raven. It cocked its head, and a black eye gleamed at them. “Ack, ack.”

    “What’s that doing here in the middle of the city?” asked Karl.

    “Got me. Aren’t they scavengers or something? Like rats.”

    “Rrrrrrrr,” the bird declared, bending low and looking Lee in the eye.

    “Come on.” He turned and started down the alley.

    They stepped over smashed glass and mangled somethings, along damp corroded bricks of decaying buildings close on either side to a small yellow light at the far end. It was covered by a circular metal shade where water gathered on the far side, slowly dripping and creating its own shiny pool in front of a green door with the number nine painted on it in black.

    Neither wanted to be the one to knock.

    “You do it Karl, you’ve known her longest.”

    “You lead the bet; I merely followed.”

    Lee rubbed his hands on his thighs to remove the dampness before tapping his knuckles against the mystery they were about to uncover. They had both had the misfortune to lose the same bet against Kara Thrace - one of her favorites - an unknown dare. She had sported a particularly gleeful grin and devilish look in her eyes when she had given them this address.

    “Maybe you didn’t knock loud enough,” said Karl.

    Lee raised his hand, about to try again, when a two-inch-wide port hole just below the number slide aside and someone said, “Yes?”

    “It’s Lee and Karl.” Kara had said to give only their first names.

    The hole closed. They heard a heavy latch click, the door swung in and red light carved a rectangle at their feet and turned the small pool to blood.

    He stood at the end of the thick, heavy open door, as was he - and taller than Karl. “You are expected.” His voice thrummed throughout the narrow hallway before them.

    “This is ridiculous.” Lee muttered in Karl’s ear.

    “I’m not gonna’ tell her we backed out at the door. Are you?”

    “Shit.”

    They stepped in together; the door closed with an audible clack. They followed the broad back past flickering brass lamps and gleaming black and grey marble wall, floor and ceiling. They had to walk carefully to keep from slipping. And there was something else, a faint, but warm spiciness that teased the back of the nose and tantalized the tongue. The man stood aside and held open one side of a velvet curtain to expose more light from beyond and muted, yet, rich, pulsing music. There was movement there, a figure, female in a dark floor length gown that flowed over her body like soft snake skin and shifted around her ankles as she crossed from left to right. She moved slowly, langorously, yet it seemed to happen quickly, in the blink of an eye. Lee stepped first through the dark folds and Karl followed close behind.

    The room is crimson and sable shadow, candle glow and mirror, impossible to tell its shape or size. A woman is on a velveteen sofa thirty feet away, a glass of ruby wine in her long fingers; a man stands beyond, leaning on a gleaming bar; a couple is murmuring together to their right. All are in velvet, satin or silk, all wear half-masks, all that can be seen of them is beautiful.

    Karl’s hand on Lee’s arm, leans close. “It’s a fancy bordello, one of those special ones you hear about but never see.”

    “Kara couldn’t afford this, and why--”

    “Gentlemen.” A purr from behind. They turn. She is nearly as tall as Karl, and the gown she wears is sanguine, dark as the darkest blood. It is high around her graceful neck and flows to pool around her painted, bear toes. It fits like a second skin. She takes a breath; her body is perfection; her nipples greet them from beneath the revealing silk. Both men reluctantly draw their eyes away, to the unhidden flawless face below the ruby-and-silk half mask: to the knowing smile, to eyes the color of a stormy sea.

    “I am Sahmain and your hostess tonight. Later we will be joined by Mystery. I must ask you to remove your footwear and jackets. You will find it quite warm here, and the carpet is soft.”

    Soft is hardly the word. It is like walking on a cloud. Lee is reminded of running on a beach in the warm sand with Zak; he can practically feel it between his toes. Karl remembers playing barefoot in the grass when he was little, how cool it was and the green smell when freshly mowed.

    Soon they are at the bar, and the dark wine she suggests is delicious and mixes well with the spicy scent that drifts about the room, with the murmur of voices and the sensuous music, barely heard but always there, teasing the ear. Everything teases, the wine that warms your tongue and throat, the aroma that follows, her fingers on the back of your neck, your ear, in your hair. In unknown time the three are old friends, trading stories, intimate anecdotes, feelings shared with no one else.

    Karl leans on the bar, his head close to Sahmain. “People always have this idea of who they think you are. The one on the outside that you let them know. But hidden inside there’s someone else different, the one you never get to be because . . . he’s not so acceptable.”

    Lee is turning his glass by the stem. “Yeah. Especially if everyone expects you to be a certain way. You can never be anything else.”

    “Why do you think we are here?” She turns to Karl and runs a finger down his lips. She steps back, lifts Lee’s chin with her hand. “Follow me.”

    She moves away like specter. Her gown rides low on her hips, revealing the roundness of her buttocks, the perfect symmetry of her totally exposed, alabaster back. They can’t help but follow, as though attached by invisible threads, wrapped in the wine and spice, victims of their own desires.

    She passes through a door neither has seen until they are upon it. It closes behind them with a soft click. To their left is a smooth, glittering steel fireplace, the opening nearly as tall as Lee, and there is a fire. It is so hot they break out in sweat immediately. Or is it the man-size gleaming wheels that hang suspended from the center of the room that cause the pulse to rise, the skin to dampen? The only light is the fire and massive, dripping candles that niche the walls. There is a satin-draped bed; there is a large cupboard; there are mirrors. And the wheels with attachments dangling.

    Sahmain stands near the carven, rosewood cupboard. “There are hooks on the wall behind you . . . for your clothing. You may have noticed how warm it is, and garments are unnecessary.”

    “I don’t--” Lee means to tell Karl this is as far as it goes, even as his mind floats unattached from his body and little outside this room matters, except she has raised her arms, and her dress slowly slithers down her breasts, her hips, her thighs, to the floor. Silk remains over her dark secret and flows slashed to her feet, and covers, exposes . . . hides, reveals as she moves like a stalking panther toward them.

    She steps between, faces Lee and leans back into Karl, turns her cheek to his and softly rubs like a cat. Her hand unbuttons Lee’s shirt, slowly, surely.

    “You may leave if you wish, but you know you don’t want to. This will likely be your only chance. I can promise there will be no regrets, only if you step through that door before the night is over.” She meets his eyes and slips his shirt from his shoulders, from his hands. She is truth. He knows this as warm air caresses his skin, as her hot hands wander up his ribs and thumbs shock over his nipples. She glides by Lee; breasts tease his forearm; she whispers close in his ear. “Help Karl.”

    She brushes Lee’s back, palms circle his hips. He’s careful, focuses on each dark blue button, pulls the soft cloth from the belt, reaches up to splay his hands over shoulders, down muscular arms and over big hands.

    “Now,” she says, and slides her hands across Lee’s stomach, then back, fingers trailing.

    Lee pulls the tee, allows his hands to touch skin, firm musculature, breathes deep, up the man’s chest (her fingers slip under Lee’s belt), the warm underarms and up to drop the tee - he sneaks a glance and Karl is looking right at him and his stomach contracts. She moves. Her hand slips from his waist. Her eyes draw Lee’s gaze for now she smiles at him heavy-lidded from behind Karl’s shoulder.

She whispers in the tall man’s ear, then nips the lobe in her white teeth. One graceful hand glides around Karl’s hip and long fingers pull leather through the buckle. Karl matches her smile; he clutches Lee’s belt and pulls him closer, copying her actions with his own.

It’s a game. Who will be the first to cry give. Karl has never been the first, has never said the word when it meant give in. Besides, he’s fascinated by the look that crosses Adama’s face when his fingers drag the zipper down, by how he’s captured those blue eyes with his own, and by how they jerk together as fingers brush cotton, then push pants down thighs to the soft rug at their feet.

“Is not the game intriguing?” She says.

She has moved away; they are closer to one another than to her. Both men find it hard for the mind to answer the question with a simple yes or no. Has she phrased it so on purpose? So they may know how far their reason has fled? Can they even move unless she moves them?

Karl doesn’t mind. He’s wholeheartedly in this game and curious about where it’s going. He has always loved games and enjoys winning, but never minds losing as long as the game is fun. He’s not worried, maybe it’s the drug he’s sure they’ve inhaled or drunk. Kara set this up after all, and he trusts her. She can be outrageous, but no more. He’ll ask later how she managed it, if she’ll tell him.

Lee feels he’s being pushed around, yet he can’t seem to stop it. There’s anger but there’s also wanting to let it go, for once, not give a damn. He goes off on this trail of I shouldn’t be doing this and what . . . , which is about as far as he gets before some sensation interrupts and he ceases to care. It’s nice not to care. It’s that spice, he’s sure, or the wine. Everything is clear except when he tries to think or worry or care. He can even move if he wants to, and he does. Takes a step back so he isn’t breathing in Karl’s face, and Karl grins at him. What the hell; he grins back.

“I suggest you change for our contest. The costumes there on the wall will keep things together more adequately than,” she smiles pointedly at their boxers, “what you are wearing.”

“Do you think one size fits all?” Karl says with a chuckle once he’s pulled on the skin-tight, black leotard.

“Leaves little to the imagination, doesn’t it. I’d feel a fool if she wasn’t over there looking like . . . Gods.”

She has lowered the two rings to the floor and is standing, hips canted, arms spread, a hand on each gleaming steel arc.

“Come, now,” she says. “The ride of the rings will determine the moon and the sun, the bee and the flower.”

“And are you the pollen?” Karl strides to the left ring and places a hand over hers.

“That depends on how well you play.”

That’s a challenge he can’t refuse.

This is likely foolish, but Lee can’t back down from this contest any more than Karl can. He is not so eager as Karl, and does a quick check before stepping into what are obviously stirrups, which turn out to be firm leather, yet yieldingly comfortable. Except for the way it’s necessary to spread his legs to reach them. Same for his arms, a high reach, and a broad stretch and grasp around leather. Black velvet loops graze his hands . . . decoration? Two thin bars run from the circumference near his hands to the nearly invisible ceiling above; two more arc from near his feet. Karl is in the same position, six feet away facing him. How did they get the wheels to fit so perfectly?

“Here are the rules. You must not let go; you must not touch the floor. You must see everything and say nothing. Not a yell, not a curse, not a whimper.”

Whimper, thinks Karl, you’ve got to be kidding, and he watches her walk to the wall, raise her arm, and he’s slowly rising. He watches the same happening to Lee and, as his head drops and his feet rise, wants to laugh like he did as a kid when he rode the spinner at the fun park. Only this time it takes muscle to hold his place, and he’s glad he didn’t eat much for dinner as he’s spun, and loses track of what is down and what is up.

Lee has spent hours in the centrifuge, and surely this can’t be worse. Only more effort is required, first in one direction, then the other. Before long one set of muscles begs rest while the other works, and it becomes disorienting; you could be thrown if you relax at the wrong time. Then it all slows, stops, and he finds himself hanging three inches above Karl. They are only a foot above the floor. It has become vitally important not to be the one to lose.

The only sound is panting in one another’s face. Arms quiver. Both have become shiny with sweat; a drop falls from Lee’s clenched belly onto Karl’s stomach.

Another salty drop gathers at the tip of Lee’s nose when the rings finally move as one, head up, thank gods, and spin a lazy circle.   A swoop up, down, never more than inches apart, eyes locked on one another. Not as demanding as before, yet concentration is required, and the dance begins to take a toll on already taxed muscles and limbs. It ends with stirrups and hand-holds slick with sweat, arms and legs shivering with fatigue, chests heaving.

“Well done,” she says, and places a kiss on each wet cheek.

The fireplace is behind Karl, and Lee sees someone approaching out of the firelight. No mistaking she is female, even though a satin cloak covers her head and hides her face. Black leather covers her breasts and hips, rides high up her calves from spike-heeled boots. He might laugh at such a typical costume, except for what she drags behind her. No, frak, they can’t be serious; his heart leaps his throat - a sharp sting on his ass and he spins and crouches on the floor with a growl.

Sahmain, a leather braid dangling from her hand. “Ohh yess. You are the burning sun and the wild bloom and will give your heat and honey this night.”

Part 2

Why we write

2008-01-27T20:50:49Z

I just read o_yannik's post that referred back to novelin90's thread re why we write. It was so good I have to put it here so I can refer back to it whenever I want.

http://community.livejournal.com/novel_in_90/250583.html

Speaking of, it's time to do more of that very thing right now.

This is Jason's fault. Does it to him every time.

2008-01-25T19:53:38Z

This little fic is in response to a challenge from romanticalgirl. Had to do it, not least, because I love everything she writes.

Lee Adama is the main character - who else? It's the summer after his first year at Fleet Academy, and he's escaped that tight ass life with his best friend. No, it's not Kara Thrace. He's never met her, not yet, lucky fellow.

The challenge is: Write a "first time fic" first time as in love, sex, however you want to put it. First time het, slash, whatever . . . This is my first time writing slash. Hope you know what that means; this is fairly soft as slash goes, but it goes, so if you're not old enough or don't care for such things, DON'T READ IT. Otherwise, hope you enjoy . . . especially you, romanticalgirl, Dear Mrs. Smith, as you and your friends have given me so many hours of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

P.S.: This is slash with a lot of caring thrown in, because I'm a romantic at heart.

Unwound

    He has lost track of the days and is glad of it. All he knows is that it is a glorious sage-scented mid-afternoon, the sky is as open as a poet’s dream, and he is as free as that hawk circling up there. Gods, what thoughts. This is Jason’s fault. Does it to him every time.

    No one from Fleet Academy would believe that serious, level-headed Cadet Lee Adama would be out here on old Highway 6 tearing across the Gori Desert on a T950X motorbike. Or that two nights ago he’d been tumbling on the floor of a house trailer with three hot women old enough to be his mother, or nearly. His head still hurts where he’d repeatedly banged it against the frig; you practically had to be a contortionist. This is Jason’s fault, too. He’s always preferred older women to girls and, wherever Jason is, there are always plenty of women. Not always beautiful, not the way you’d expect, but sexy. There’s something in every one, a hidden, smoldering latency, and Jason is the spark. Lee wonders how he does it.

    The guy looks the part; Lee remembers how jealous he’d been, how he’d practically hated him the first time they’d met. Until he’d discovered Jason was more interested in guys than Lee’s first and only sweetheart. They’ve learned a lot about one another since they were fifteen, shared past griefs and disappointments, found how alike they are where it really counts, know exactly how the other copes.

    Which is why Jason showed up two weeks after Lee came home after finishing his first year at the Academy, all wound up tight as a cotter spring.

    “Jason.” Carolanne stood at the open door, but didn’t move aside. She’d liked him for nearly a year after they’d first met, didn’t they all. He’d tossed her complements and kissed her hand, given her his lopsided grin and pierced her through the heart from beneath his long, dark lashes. Only now she knew he was trouble. Lee changed when he showed up, was beyond her control.

    This is exactly what Lee needs. They've been over a month on the road, usually camping out under the stars, sometimes in a trailer like the other night or a friendly house or barn or shed. Only once had it been necessary to pay, except in help. Lee has been cold, wet, hot, sunburned and windburned, but never unhappy. Has never regretted being here, wherever here is - somewhere on the Gori, hopefully where it dissolves under the sea by tonight. In fact, he can swear he smells the sea on the wind as they slow and glide onto an even smaller side road that disappears through not-so-distant lavender, rose and saffron-streaked hills.

    So they come to the western sea. The air is soft and fragile with salt; the pastel sky is furrowed with transparent cloud, the beach scattered with dead white trees, like the cleaned bones of giants.

    They sit beyond the sand, side-by-side in the newly-made silence and watch the waves roll in. Jason removes his helmet and Lee follows.

    “The trees are from the coast north of here,” Jason says. There’s furious storms there in the winter; two big rivers drain into the sea - some of this was probably washed down two, three hundred years ago.” He smiles at Lee. “It’ll make a nice fire tonight.”

    They leave the bikes above the sand and trek what they need closer to the water, but above the damp wave line. The fish they eat was purchased frozen at a dried-up, lonesome food and gas place along the highway: Last Chance for Three Hundred K. Lee cooked, so Jason ambles barefoot to the water and sand-rubs their plates clean. Lee’s boots are off, too, and he’s curling his toes in the still-warm sand. They’d taken a nice long walk south on this seemingly endless stretch of sand and sea, and his calves ache. He leans forward and adds another piece of wood to their small fire. It’s not dark yet, but the clouds are turning so many colors he doesn’t want to look away for missing the change. They’re running north to south, and you can almost see the arch of the sky, the deeper colors at the horizon, how they fade overhead.

    Jason sits down next to him, knees pulled up, and dangles a thin branch over the fire. They’ve put down a tarp to keep as much of the sand out as possible, sleeping bags on top. Neither speaks while they watch the sky and listen to the sigh of the waves. It’s becoming a ritual, waiting for the first star to appear. They’ve run out of the usual conversation: the previous year of school, conquests, family, remember whens . . . regrets. It doesn’t matter; they’re easy in one another’s company.

    Jason turns to his pack and rummages in the side pocket, pulls out a small, tin box and opens the lid. “I’ve been waiting for just such an evening as this.” He holds what appears to be a home-rolled cigarette, reaches into his pocket, flicks a match to the end and inhales.

    “You’ve been holding out on me,” says Lee.

    “It’s harder to get now that it’s illegal. Besides,” he presents the glowing cig to Lee, “I had to make sure a year at that place hadn’t turned you entirely sour.”

    “Never.” He inhales, holds, raises his chin and watches the trail of smoke join the clouds above his head. “Not in the summer away out here, anyway.”

    They pass back and forth a few times, not saying much. Jason puts more wood on the fire, building it up a little. It’s still not dark, but the fire’s a comfort, Lee thinks, always has been for a man out in the middle of nowhere, or a woman, he supposes. He starts to think of her but cuts it off; looks at Jason, instead, to get his mind on something else. Jase is staring at the flames, seems hypnotized like a fire will do, especially if you’ve had enough gem in your lungs, plying its way through your blood, slithering into every corner of your brain and . . . oh gods, this is hot shit.

    Look at him there in the firelight. No wonder fems fall all over themselves to get his attention. Remember that time he rode up with her on that Rasner, all long legs and tight denims and that black hair in his face. High cheekbones, liquid eyes, and that mouth, that--

    Zeus! Lee focuses on a piece of glowing coal. What am I thinking? It’s the goddamn gem. He’s not fifteen any more. But he remembers. He’d gone over to Jason’s and they’d smoked gem together, and Jase had played while Lee got lost in the music right there on the floor. Jason was an incredible guitar player even then, and he’d sent Lee off where he’d wanted to go, as far as possible from where he was, until he’d felt those cool lips on his. The ensuing strain had nearly ended their friendship. Their willingness to discuss it had brought them closer.

    Lee’s been brutally honest with himself the last couple years, trying, at least. He remembers, too, what happened before he opened his eyes and Jason pulled away. For those few seconds he’d wanted it. That was natural with boys though, wasn’t it. Especially at that age, when you were under the influence of hormones as well as gem, before logic took over. He wasn’t a boy, now. He knew guys at the Academy, of course. It was no big deal, but he wasn’t one of them. He’d even been approached, but it had always seemed too foreign, to be with someone like himself. Himself as foreign, now that was a kick.

    “What are you snickering at?” Jason is leaning over his upraised knees.

    “It’s the gem, I think.”

    “Not going to share?”

    It was just a boyhood thing. They’d been over it long ago. Maybe they could have a laugh about it, now.

    “That time when we were fifteen, the kiss thing . . .”

    “You were thinking of that?”

    “We haven’t had gem that often. One time reminds of another.”

    “So what was so funny?”

    “Me, I guess. What it would be like . . .” Now he can’t say it.

    Jason’s head is cocked, looking at Lee, strands of dark hair over one eye. Lee knows because he takes a quick look and is caught. It’s quite black beyond the firelight now; a flame dances in the pupil of Jason’s eye.

    “What?” he says. “What what would be like, Lee?”

    Lee has the ridiculous urge to chuckle. “What, what?” he says.

    Jason snorts. Both break up and end lying on their backs looking at the stars.

    “Aah gods, you’re impossible,” says Jason.

    “I still miss her.”

    “I know.”

    “There’s women, nice ones, but there’ll never be another.”

    “You don’t know that.”

    “You don’t know different.”

    “It’s only been two years, Lee.”

    “She’s the only one I’ve ever loved.”

    “Maybe you should try letting someone else love you. That’d be a start.”

    “Who? You?”

    Gods. He hadn’t meant to say it. He’s on his elbows looking down at the beautiful, still face.

    “Jase. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know how I am, especially with gem. I strike out when I shouldn’t. I’m just missing her and you’re here. There is no one else. You knew her. You’re the one who knows how I feel so you’re the one that gets it. I’d never do anything to hurt you on purpose, you have to know, you--”

    He’s running off at the mouth only Jason’s hand with those long, strong fingers is along his jaw; his thumb is stroking back and forth across Lee’s bottom lip, back and forth, back and forth, and it’s really hard to keep his mouth going, especially with his heart starting to thump the way it is.

    He shuts up.

    There’s this feeling as he looks into those dark eyes. It has nothing to do with sex. Maybe it does, but that part’s along for the ride. How it’s going to work, hard or soft, has little to do with this. With what is running deep right now, cutting through the loneliness that’s been his constant companion for the past two years, in spite of a few frantic liaisons.

    Fingers trace the skin at the back of his neck like fluttering moths, and send a shivering current down his spine. Eyes close; he has to breathe, and hears the sea roll in; it’s his own blood in his ears. The hand is firm against his head now, fingers spread, tangled in his hair, the hair he hasn’t cut since summer started, since he became this other person, the one his father, his family and the military will never know, not even Zak. But it’s who he is, or might have been if someone’s (his father’s, his own) narrowness of purpose had been different. He’s the person who lifts himself and settles over Jason, belly to belly, groin to groin, and doesn’t apologize for it. He knows part of what he’s doing, and Jason knows the rest.

    He’s wondered about the kiss, and it’s decidedly different. Like climbing one of those waves, its surge lifting you, higher and higher. A constant, glorious struggle to stay with it, not let it pull you under too soon; gods, he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the worlds. This is crazy; he must be mad, and he buries his face in Jason’s warm neck, breathing in the moist sea-salt and spice smell of him, feels their swollen groins side-by-side, straining against their denims, cold grains of sand pushing around his toes.

    He feels the thrum against his ear as much as hears . . .

    “This would be easier if we got out of these clothes.”

    Lee raises to his elbows. There’s enough combined star light and firelight to see one another . . . just.

    “I don’t know what the frak I’m doing Jase.”

    “Yes, you do. I think it’s pretty obvious.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    Jason gives him a lopsided smirk. “It comes naturally, Lee. Don’t worry about it. You always worry too much.” Jason’s hands are already roaming under Lee’s tee, tracing the line of his neck, across his shoulder blades, down his backbone, around, up, caressing. It’s more than mere touch, it’s as though something’s being passed through those fingers, part adoring comfort, part arousal. It’s easy from there to kneeling before one another in front of the fire, bare chested, Jason’s hand at his belt, his at the other man’s.

    Man. He considers this again. Not boy, not woman. They’re nineteen, old enough to know what they’re doing. He can’t tell himself later he didn’t know, was too drunk, or even blame it on the gem, because he’s not that far gone. He wants Jason’s hand in his pants, warm, even hot where it is right now and, gods, an eye blink, a gasp, right there his - he leaps to meet him, as though he’s wanted this for so long and possibly he has. His own hand is on Jason, in that selfsame place so intimate, where they can give one another all the pleasure in the worlds, and Lee’s head drops back from his shoulders as Jase’s lips wander his chest; his own mouth drops open and he breathes in the salt air, tastes it on his tongue and shudders up onto the next, higher wave. This time they’re taking it together, pants rumpled at their knees in the sand. Lee’s left hand is at the back of Jason’s neck, fingers twisted tightly in his hair, grasping rhythmically with the rocking of their hips, the pulse of their blood and of the sea. One side cool in the darkening night, the other hot against the crackling fire. All sensation is pouring into one place now, one burning focus that screams with need, like molten magma rushing home, seeking its beginning.

    Their dark shadows become more frantic - a throaty keen, stuttering breaths, and they’re thrown upon the shore, leaning into one another, chests heaving, skin shiny with sweat in the firelight.

    Jason is first to sit back on his haunches. He builds the fire up, then stands and steps out of his pants.

    “Race you to the water.”

    Lee stands, follows suit.

    “It’ll be freezing . . .” and takes off around the opposite side of the fire, only seconds ahead of the other.

    The sky has barely turned before they’re each wrapped in a blanket prancing around the fire, to which has been added a large log which sends thousands of sparks mingling with the stars. Jason is soon bobbing up and down while he shuffles around and around, singing or, rather, making a continual single tone to himself in a pleasing, deep tenor.

    “Nun - nun - nun - nun . . . .”

    Lee is following him around, but silently.

    “Does the humming warm you up faster?”

    “Definitely . . . nun - nun - nun . . . my grandfather did it a lot. He said it was part of our heritage . . . from way back. Only there was language; it meant something.”

    “That Amerindian thing. Why you don’t have any hair on your chest and all those stories.”

    “Yup.”

    “You really think all that’s true? That far back to the Thirteenth Colony and all?”

    Jason sits down, spreads the blanket out beneath, crossing his ankles. His dark eyes sparkle, tanned skin appears russet in the light of the fire. “I’m warmed up. And I believe it a hell of a lot more than you believe in Kobol and the gods. It’s good to believe in something, Lee.” He pokes at the fire.

    Lee sits down next to him, lets the blanket slide down behind, arms around his knees. He’s sitting closer than before, before what happened. He looks at his hands, fingers intertwined, bare toes, shins and face warm facing the fire.

    “Maybe I do believe in something, now.” Turns his head to catch Jason eyes . . . reaches, runs his open palm across that smooth, hairless chest.

    “That’s one of the things I love about you, Lee. You take a hell of a long time to make up your mind. But once you do, it’s full speed ahead.”

    They collapse onto the blankets, and a wave rolls in, washes in, a foamy creamy curling line up the sand . . . then sighs a retreat. There’s nothing but a crackling, popping fire, giant white bones reflecting starlight and the dark outlines of two motorcycles high on a dune.