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  • Chase 2:45 am on January 31, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Secret Agent Man 

    Everyone’s fic has to include someone remote control driving a car through [big city]

     

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  • Chase 3:52 am on January 21, 2011 Permalink | Reply
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    Being a travel writer was, perhaps, the … 

    Being a travel writer was, perhaps, the best job in the world. Unfortunately, it meant being forced to swallow down some of the most disgusting things in the world. Cathy tried to avoid it where she could, but when she couldn’t, she had forced herself to become an expert at faking the happy noises and nods that indicated she was enjoying it — and not vomiting. She had plowed through flame-broiled guinea pigs, boiled sheep’s intestines, and more than a few types of raw fish.

    What was sitting in front of her, though, she couldn’t place. It didn’t appear to be particularly animal or organic. She couldn’t even pronounce what it was called.

    “Must eat,” her host, who was really very kind though persistent, prodded. She was one of the few here who spoke English, though broken, and it was hard enough to get an answer out of her normally. But still, she did not want to ingest anything she didn’t have any idea about. She would eat it, she was sure, but not until she knew. It was one of those rules.

    “Animal?” she asked. She was so far beyond trying to use full sentences, that she was trying to break it down into something her host might actually understand. “Cow? Pig?”

    “No, no. Eat!” the host cried, pushing the plate a little closer.

    Cathy glanced around for the translator that had been sent with her, but he was trying to convince another member of the host party to explain something about the local fauna to him, and it would be a few minutes before he’d return. So┬áCathy steeled herself, and took a tiny nibble. For all that it looked like something that might have been scraped off the bottom of a swimming pool, it wasn’t bad. Her host was watching expectantly, and she nodded hugely. “Is good, is good!” Cathy said.

    Her translator returned a few minutes later, when half the plate had been devoured. “You got it figured out then?” he asked, grinning broadly.

    “I still don’t know what it is, but it’s delicious.”

    The translator blanched a little. “You don’t? Well, the last guy, you know? They didn’t like his article much.”

     
    • theinkling 5:18 am on January 21, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      This was AWESOME.
      Loved the ending!

      I almost snorted cookie!

    • Shen Git 4:58 am on January 22, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh mai gawd I could retch. GOOD JOB!

  • Chase 3:05 am on January 20, 2011 Permalink | Reply
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    Perfume 

    He had very few things from his life before leaving home. His mother’s diary, of course. That alone he would have given anything to make sure it was kept safe. He had, too, her copy of Salieri’s concerto in B-flat major, her tiny handwriting pencilled in with phrases like, “breathe, you idiot,” and “don’t rush!”

    But perhaps most important of all, he had managed to run away with what little remained of her perfume. It smelled like oranges; the kind of deep, organic, acidic smell that didn’t come naturally to Siberia. He had hoarded it, the same way she had, trying not to use it all unless it was truly worth it. Smell is one of the strongest triggers of the human memory, and he was willing to be a miser, and keep that one memory to himself as long as possible. Or was it not because he was unwilling to share, but because nothing else seem deserving of that touch of intimacy?

    It did not matter. He was willing to share this, with his love, and he knew that whatever may come, there would not be a more deserving moment than this. So he sprayed their pillows with the perfume, and let it sink in. After all, he intended on asking someone to marry him only once; he was going to pull out all the stops. If not for his lover, then for himself.

     
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