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 Post subject: Found Teen
PostPosted: Sun Jul 02, 2006 9:10 pm 
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Joined: Sun Oct 16, 2005 12:19 pm
Posts: 102
Location: Nottingham, UK
Title: Found
Author: Aissy
Fandom: AtS
Rating: Teen
A/N: Homework for my Creative Writing course. Following the class on characterisation. “Pick one of your characters and write about them being… stranded on a hilltop.” Now. I can either bore myself with an unfamiliar, unexciting, foetal, pointless, stereotypical, Mary Suey, unrealistic and soulless character of my own, or… Hmm, tough one.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Joss Whedon. Why? Because homework’s best when it feels a bit more like home and a bit less like work.
Narration: Part POV
Word count: 5,260
Prologue: He did slay the dragon. They all did. They’ve been carrying on, they’re gonna carry on, helping the helpless till our brains run dry.



<center> FOUND
</center>

‘You know what’s even worse than being stranded on a hilltop on a Saturday evening, a zillion miles from the nearest nightclub or bar or even, frickin’ library, with no one around except a couple of stupid chipmunks?’ he thought, sliding his back down against a tree trunk to flop onto the ground. ‘Fathers.’

He studied his surroundings, from the orangey sky meeting the ground on the left, to the black and grey mountain overlooking, a few hundred meters ahead. He mechanically searched his pockets for something to light a fire with, and got out a scrunched up Suzy Q wrapper. He started un-scrunching it, then proceeded to twist it one way and the other, to fold it flat and wrap and unwrap it around his index finger. He should know: he had not one, not two, but three of them. He was kind of an expert on the subject. Like, forget law school, forget the internship and the last minute gap year he was indulging in prior to it: he had a much better chance of graduating with a major in Father Studies. That might even actually be useful, should he wish to pursue this wacky line of work further. ‘Although,’ he mumbled out loud, ‘not sure Stanford offers Vampire 101.’

They were all the same, though. Blood, foster, abducting-foster, fake-memory foster, fangs, no fangs… A father was a father. No matter how great the figure, how inspiring and awe-inspiring, every now and again, the sheer size inevitably ended up… in your way. Like, for example, what was the deal with the chivalry thing? He’d endured the lecture from his dad, once, had given some lip to his math tutor and the old man had overheard. That was no way to address a woman/girl/lady. Lest bad things befall you. That, he’d learnt from his previous − yet simultaneous − father. Because the fair sex also happened to be that of the witch. So he didn’t, generally, dis girls. Golden rule, pretty much. But the being rude to women: definitely a father pet peeve. Not as widely recognised as the hackneyed “don’t do drugs”, “don’t spend it all at once” and “don’t chop off people’s ears unless really necessary”, but a definite no-no. He looked at the sky, the orange turning blue, and a glance at his watch confirmed it: nightfall. He’d walked for the best part of the day, and that had only gotten him here, still a good fifty hours’ stroll from dear, cocooning civilisation. Couldn’t walk no more. Well, he could, he could probably walk for another twenty-four hours non-stop, easy. Physically, that was. But he wanted a rest; he had no desire to be traipsing around the wilderness of these parts in the middle of the night. Not that he was afraid of the dark. Wasn't as if anything was being blotted out or anything. But if bionic night vision was included in the package, he had yet to find the switch. So he’d resume his trek at sunrise, like any normal, sensible, knowledgeable hiker. And because he could.

With night usually came cold. Not here, though. Yet, somehow, instinctively or as a result of a life’s worth of Western movie memories, he felt that setting up camp meant building a fire.

‘Priority number 1:’ he thought, picking up a twig fallen from the foliage above, ‘not getting bored.’ He stood up and began combing around the tree for more twigs. ‘What would Angelina Jolie do?’ he thought on. ‘And, more to the point, what the hell would she be doing in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday night? Unless… ah. Unless she had a helicopter crash. She was on her way back from an award ceremony, took a shortcut, but the pilot had sampled a few of the cocktails and the moron crashed the damn chopper. He died instantly, but she walked away with exactly zero injuries because… because sometimes, people just walk away from road accidents and the like. They do. That’s not the issue, the issue is, she’s fine and she’s been walking this way but unlike this kick-ass of a Daniel Boone…’ he strode a few yards away from the tree and dropped an armful of branches and dried leaves, ‘… she doesn’t know the way back.’ So. Flint or friction? He looked around, then knelt by his tinder, picked up a stick and snapped it in half. He wedged a piece of bark between his knees, congratulating himself for opting for long jeans yesterday morning, and started rubbing the stick at the break, where it was thin and supple, against the bark, back and forth, with all his youthful, superhuman energy. ‘She's walked for so long,’ he resumed inwardly, ‘and she’s hungry and tired, and afraid − because, let’s face it, she’s no Lara Croft − and in the distance she sees this beacon, this little light of hope and warmth and company, and she’s here like a shot, introducing herself because she’s too modest and asking if she can share my fire for the night because of the whole helicopter bummerage, and I say, “Yeah, sure. What are charming, fun, hunky but not beefcakey, protecting, hilltop strangers for?” And that, ladies and gents, is why you do not skimp on the fire when setting up camp − in the event of Angelina Jolie. So then she sits down next to me and she starts telling me how Brad could never light a fire like this. She laughs when I reply that, considering we are now in 2004 and I was born in late 2001, I do make a mean fire − she probably thinks it’s some sort of imagey joke − and in between two mouthfuls of toasted chipmunk, she confesses that she doesn’t know the way back to L.A., and if I don’t know either we’ll be stuck here forever, and she hopes I don’t know either. She’s a little cold so I put my arm around her and she feels all snug and peaceful so she rests her head on my shoulder. Then I tell her how pretty she is and she smiles and that is the most beautiful thing for a hundred miles around, forget the waterfall over there, forget the tiny diamonds pinned onto the night velvet throw. She whispers in my ear that if we’re stuck here forever it will be our duty, as the only representatives of the human race in this desolate place, to populate the hilltop. Then she kisses me and she slowly slips her hand down my --’ ‘GODDAMMIT!’ he bawled. ‘Is this frakking fire ever gonna take?’ He chucked the stick away in a huff, and lay down on his back, hands crossed behind his head, sulking at the stars.

His father had taught him their names. The constellations’. Total nature buff, his father. To him, the beauty of nature, its immensity, harshness and equilibrium were a sort of absolute, incontrovertible, mathematical proof of the existence of God. And for his day that was quite advanced, really. To need proof. He smelled the air and was immediately overcome by a feeling of well-being. It smelt free. The mountain scent, the infinity of the stars, those had been his only entertainment once upon a time. The only pleasures available. That was Ursa Major, there. And that, there, was… Pokemon Borealis? He couldn’t repress a smile. He would have been in so much trouble. Forgetting the names of the constellations. He could hear him clear as… dark, brutal, relentless day. “I pass this knowledge on to you because it is the only remaining link. Those stars shine here as they do in the old world; they are God’s message to us that He hasn’t forsaken us. Even here. Knowing the names given to them by our forefathers humbles us and honours them. It is science which tells us apart from the demons, from the soulless beasts who thrive on our pain and despair. I trust that you understand that, Stephen. As I trust that you apprehend the avail of being schooled in the reading of an ever-at-hand map.” He sure did. Tonight more than ever. And he could still read it; it’s just the names that were gone. But, in his defence, that wasn’t entirely his fault. His memory only had a limited capacity, and when Vail had added the artificial memories he’d not only confiscated the real ones, he’d deleted some too, to make space. Looked like he’d sacrificed Leo. Oh, Leo. Well, he’d sacrificed most of the constellations’ names, anyways. Or maybe they’d make an appearance back someday, seeing as most of his original memories had been coming back in waves so far, ever since the “dream”. But he doubted it. Like, he remembered running across this cop guy. On the roof of a building. About to blow his brains out. So he’d had a chat with him, talked him out of it. Then he remembered beating him to a bloody pulp. And he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. So, one of two explanations. Either there was no reason and he’d been a full-scale wackjob in those days, or some memories had since gone poof. It was obvious to him that some memories had undergone radical poofage.

And at this precise moment, judging by the position of that nameless star there, his bud Jess was having his fourth beer and third song request and was asking, shouting in his other bud Weeble’s ear, why he wasn’t here celebrating Esteban’s 21st with the rest of them. And Weeble was shrugging with a “because he’s pathetic” kind of look. Which wasn’t even the whole story. But, come on, there was stuff to do here too… Fun-type things… to be… having fun doing… He could count those stars. Or, he could grab one of those twigs and poke himself in the eye with it. The possibilities were endless. He mustn’t get bored. He mustn’t get bored. He mustn’t get bored. If he got bored… ‘He wins,’ he muttered.

His stomach rumbled. First time since the start of this little outing: not bad going. If he’d known how long it would be until his next meal he would’ve so had that midnight snack. He’d got back to the hotel late after successfully bugging a dating agency run by a bunch of − they had reason to believe − Mok’tagar demons. So he’d thought he’d chill out in front of yesterday’s hockey game he’d taped. He’d gone down to the kitchen, made the perfect sandwich − layers of pastrami, a little mustard, some lettuce, no tomato − and had gone back up to the lobby to watch the match on the monitor they sometimes used there. He’d not felt like going straight to his suite for some reason − even though it was his, he wasn’t paying rent, granted, but he’d been given the suite as a thank-you for helping the team move back from Wolfram & Hart and there’d never been any question that the room was his. But he’d sat down on the red sofa whose back was to the courtyard door, had pushed the tape in, only to realise he had to rewind it because someone had watched the game without having the consideration to wait for him to get back and watch it together like they normally did, but no big. And while the tape had been rewinding, that other idiot had appeared from nowhere, slumped onto the sofa next to him, plonked his feet on the coffee table, and had started tucking into his own snack of a bowl of cereal. Or, more specifically, crumbling the cereal into the bowl, going, “What we watchin’, mate? Got myself an ER re-run double bill, gettin’ grippin’ now what with the whole helicopter-hand bugaboo, you’re gonna love it. I kind of feel for the bloke. Bloody thing won’t play on my telly, think I knackered my video when I spilt some Newkie that time with the Siames-- What?” he’d then asked, raising his eyes from his bowl and realising he was being stared at. He’d almost replied, “What in the name of sweet maggot-faced hippie are you doing?” but the being grossed out had preceded the question and he’d slid his plate of intact sandwich across the table, and that had been the end of that snack. Apparently, it gives pig’s blood a little texture. So he’d got up, had got his tape out, and had left him to it and gone up to his suite and that’s when he’d -- His eyes almost popped out of their sockets. ‘You gotta be kiddin’ me.’

In a split second he was on his feet, arms hanging aside from his body, legs slightly bent and apart for stability, head just a little lowered, glaring straight at it, in the most intimidating body language he could display. ‘Stay,’ he ordered in a put-on calm voice, stepping back very slowly towards the tree. ‘That’s it.’ He tried his best to keep his eyes on it and not to look down at what he’d just walked on. It felt like… Yes! The rope. He’d dropped it here before sitting under the tree. Thank you. He very gently crouched, his eyes not shifting from their target, and groped for the rope. ‘Good bear.’

It began to amble in his direction, rapidly shortening the thirty feet or so separating them. ‘’Kay, what part of “stay”…?’ He turned around, ran to the tree, threw one end of the rope over the lowest branch, which, in sequoia country, was already about four times his height, and, hitting bull’s eye first time, gripped it as it fell back down. He climbed up, tugging on the rope, and by the time the bear had got to the trunk, he’d reached the branch and was hauling himself up to sit on it. He pulled the rope up and looked down. The bear was watching him quietly, on all fours, just curious. ‘What is this, a goddamn Looney Tunes cartoon? Go away!’ he shouted down. It didn’t look too dangerous: big, brown, grizzly or related, but kind of cuddly. But he couldn’t stay here all night. ‘Go on! Get gone! Go… check on your porridge or someth’n.’ The bear, still gawking inquisitively, raised one foreleg to scratch gently at the bark. ‘Uh uh. Don’t even think about it. Just go! Come on!’ The animal sniffed the tree and began walking around it, settling in. As an incentive for it to leave, he lashed the rope down at it, hitting it on the snout. The bear roared with rage and stood on its hind legs, clawing frantically at the trunk.

‘Way to go, Connor!’ he blurted, panicking. ‘You made a bear! Pissed! Undo it! Undo it!’ He broke off a piece of the branch with green needles on, and threw it down, more to distract the beast than to lure it away because, with fangs like those, it definitely wasn’t a veggie. The bear ignored it and snarled threateningly. ‘Okay! Sorry about the rope thing! That wasn’t cool, I get it! But hey! I got here first, buddy! I called the tree. Okay?’ The bear growled at him. He stood up on the branch, holding onto another one at chest height. ‘Um, excuse me! Do you know who you’re growling at? I’m the freakin’ Destroyer, pal! Do you know what that means? It means: it’s your lucky day. I had a knife on me, those teeth would be hanging around my neck by now! So you can keep your grrrs, Funshine!’ Knowing its master − or getting tired of standing on its hind legs −, the bear backed down, still watching him, still staying, but noticeably more amicable. He sat back down. ‘Please go! Come on!’ He looked at the rope and sighed, knowing, if this carried on much longer, he’d have to tie himself to the branch to go to sleep. Really, really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. ‘If I tell you a secret, will you scram? Okay. But you can’t tell anyone. Promise? All right. Here goes. I’m a dumbass.’ The bear had no specific reaction to the shocking news. ‘No, really. I am. Nineteen years I gotta make up for. Nineteen! Twice. Thirty-eight years! And here I am, sitting in a tree and not even K.I.S.S.I.N.G! I’m a total dumbass. But you know what?’ He put his index over his lips to emphasise the confidentiality of the matter and whispered, ‘It’s genetic.’

The bear lay down at the foot of the tree. ‘Oh, no! Hey! Wakey wakey! Don’t you have a… hibernation to go to?’ The animal rested its head on its front paws. ‘Oh, great!’ he moaned, passing the rope around the branch. ‘I was looking forward to this. There’s only so much time one wants to spend untie--’ Both he and the bear raised their heads at the noise. He peered ahead. A distant blast, possibly a clap of thunder, although it really sounded like a gunshot. But it was hard to tell with the echo of the mountain. The bear got up and, without growling goodbye, trotted off into the night.

He jumped down. ‘’Kay, hence the fire.’ On his way to get the stick he’d chucked earlier, he glanced at the mountain. It wasn’t close, whatever that noise was. He picked up his improvised match and went back to his tinder and piece of bark. ‘Here we go again.’ He knelt down and ran the snapped end of the stick back and forth on the bark, steadily, stubbornly.

First thing he would do when he got back − if he got back −, he was gonna take a shower, then he was gonna raid the fridge, and then, he was gonna drive straight to his mom and dad’s. Because, face it, he would never make it back in time for Sunday lunch. His mom had phoned last Sunday and jokingly remarked that just because he had a job now did not exempt him from visiting if not his boring parents at least his sister, and he had promised he would drop by for next Sunday lunch if invited, and he would never hear the end of it. But he’d make up some excuse that did not involve spending the night on his own in bear-o-land, and then he’d go up to his sister’s room and he’d surprise her with the new Simple Plan and she’d put it on and she’d be all happy and he’d tease her with something like, “So, does Brandon like this band too?” and she’d all blush and she’d be like, “What do I know? I so do not have a crush on Brandon!” And then he’d have coffee with his parents, and he’d have to tell them about Traice. He wouldn’t tell them the whole thing, obviously. He’d… pick and mix. He’d pick the part where, when you go off to college, you meet different people, get different interests, and sometimes you grow apart, and it’s time to call it a day. He’d skip the part where, when you get smacked in the face with the memory of the woman you really truly loved, when you remember her scent, her laugh, the touch of her skin, the way your heart would beat, girls like Tracy just don’t do it anymore, as macho and arrogant and just plain horrible as that sounds.

The bark felt a little warm. Nowhere near warm enough. Wasn’t that the women’s job anyway? The fire? They would come back with the wild boar or mammoth or whatev-- bear, with the bear, and the wife would have already made the fire. To do the cooking. ‘Hmm, thoughts like that, you’re one step away from calling your math tutor a naggin’ old skank. Or your co-worker a…’ But, no, it wasn’t like that. He had learned his lesson. If your father’s in earshot, and you’re about to bad-mouth a lady… Don’t do it. Loud. Just do it quietly enough so only she can hear. Only snag was… Some fathers have stretchier earshot than others.

‘But when you’re a dumbass,’ he thought, ‘you don’t always think things through or… at all. You go up to your suite to watch a hockey game, you ain’t bothering no one, right? You open the door and… she’s there. All searching through your stuff, your property, your private… stuff! And I look at her and she’s so gorgeous and pure and just, wow, and, being a dumbass, all I can think is, “Man! I got naked pictures of Tracy in there!” So, before I knew it, I was like, “Get the hell outta that closet! Whatcha doing in my goddamn room? This is my room!”

She gazed at me, all red − um, would that make it purplish? − -handed like, and she said in this toneless voice, “We require the Matmata Codex. It was established you took it. We require it. This instant.”

“So I borrowed your stupid book!” I yelled. “That don’t give you the right to go in my room! You don’t do that! What happened to asking?”

“You were out. I knocked according to propriety, and got no reply, which confirmed your absence. You were statistically unlikely ever to find out.”

“So, what, every time I’m out I can expect you to go poke your shifty nose into my private life?!”

“No. For holding and moving physical objects, the hands are most convenient. It’s the opposable th--”

“Oh, you know what I mean, you freak! Save the ‘just arrived in this dimension’ gig for someone’s who’s not been-there-done-that!” She just stared at me. Busted, like. She’s been here long enough, and I know for a fact that she’s actually familiar with idioms. She knows what’s acceptable social behaviour and what’s not, also. And she’s well aware that she doesn’t own the world. Anymore. “Book’s over there!” I pointed at the shelf above my bed, fully in sight from where she was. “What’s the attraction with the damn closet?”

She didn’t have an answer to that, and then I heard, “Hey, hey. What’s with the yelling?” from behind so I turned around and at the door stood the other half of “we” as in “we require the Codex”.

“What’s she doing searching my room? I thought this was my room. You gave it to me! What’s she doing in it?”

“Yeah, sorry ’bout that. We almost cracked the Vinji Code. There’s just a passage in the Matmata Codex, according to Wes’s notes, that should help with the final power channelli--”

“This is my room. You can’t just, like, give me a place here, and then pretend like I don’t exist! Give someone a room, that means it’s theirs to keep free of random ransackings if they so desire. Look it up.”

He was all dumbstruck. I might take property law as my paper topic next year. “Um. Yeah, saving the lives of 309 people: kind of my priority right now. Start putting ancient mystical books back when you’re done with ’em and I promise my petty saving the world won’t interfere with your right to privacy.”

“Oh, that is so unfair! You know my views on magic! I don’t believe in it! But you say it might be useful if I learn a coupla easy locator spells, so I make the effort! That’s why the book’s here! And I dig the importance of you getting it from here, it’s just, why does it have to be her? All nosing about? Why didn’t you just get in, grab the book, and beat it?”

He glared at me with a “duh” face, which, admittedly, was deserved. “Yeah well I would have if you hadn’t always refused to invite me in to preserve that darling privacy you’re so mad about!”

“No, actually, that’s not why I won’t invite you in! I got my reasons not to invite you in. We need a fallout shelter. One room in the Hyperion to run to, in case. One room that’s Angelus-proof. That’s why I won’t invite you in. Sue me.”

“No, I won’t sue you, I’ll just send my co-workers to get life-and-death items back from your room every now and then. That all right with you?”

“Yeah, it’s fine!” I yelled. “Long as she doesn’t snoop around like she was! Why were you searching in my closet?” I demanded. She stared at me completely expressionless, safe for that passion in her aqua eyes, but then she has that most of the time so…

He was waiting for an answer too; the closet was obviously not part of his book retrieval instructions. “You didn’t see the Codex up there?” he asked her, nodding at the shelf from the corridor.

“No,” she simply replied, still staring at me.

I knew she was lying. I even knew what she was looking for. She doesn’t know but I heard, the other day, when she was talking with Gunn. He was telling her how Fred was forever opening portals and she seemed very, very eager to find out more. A little too eager, IMHO. So she must’ve figured, since my room used to be Fred’s… My guess is she was looking for Fred’s article on supersymmetry and P-dimensional subspace. But I didn’t say anything, ’cause I’m not a rat. But when someone like her is interested, for whatever reason she has going on in her weird-logic, single-minded little head, in opening portals: not good. And it pissed me off that I should be the one who has to have my private life all violated just because a dem-- sub… human… person has decided she’s pulling a Quinn Mallory. I could just feel myself getting all road-ragey that she could be so… evil! My chest was filling up. With blood or something. I was mad.

“Okay. All right. I didn’t remind her -- you,” he corrected, turning to her, “to avoid looking through people’s personal things… Folks just generally don’t like that, okay? Your first instinct is that people’s things are yours -- that people are yours; I should’ve reminded you. My bad. I’m sorry about the closet,” he said to me. “Now would you please pass me the book so we can get with the life-saving?”

I got the book off the shelf and thrust it into her arms. I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was going, preceding her down the corridor; she stepped toward the door and, I dunno, it just came out. “Filthy demon.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned round to face me. “What malady is gnawing at your discernment so, that you should presume to challenge me?” Swell.

His face reappeared in the door. Sweller. “You may as well apologise now because I know you didn’t mean that.”

Now, that, strangely, did nothing to un-piss me. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You gonna take it back. ’Cause you’re a good kid now, who respects everyone who’s on my side. Because it’s eons since my son was a specist brat − a lifetime, you could say. And it’s not you saying those words --”

“Your words are barely more than bleats, they are but vibrations to my shell’s cochlea…”

“Illyria… Not helping. ”

“… But spawn does not displease its elders consequence-free, in this world nor any.”

“Okay, helping. You heard the lady. Consequence is, you tell her the truth. That you didn’t mean it. Now.”

“Like hell,” I said, just to use a word that had resonance for all three of us. And, can I just say: “spawn”? Spawn yourself, you great big… S&M smurf! “I’m not a liar. I did mean it.”

“You didn’t! Those words are not yours. It’s your mouth and your voice but the one I’m hearing is Holtz. That’s his work.”

Then I lost it. “You leave my father out of this! My father was a good man!”

We both did. “Your father was A) not your father, and B) not a good man! He was turned into an obsessed wreck by grief, which, okay, part of me had to do with, but… He used to take you to the middle of nowhere, tie you up to a tree, and leave you all alone to find your way back to him, for God’s sake! That what it takes? Huh? Is that what it takes for you to think of your father as a good man? Because I can do it, you know! If that’s what you want! Is that what you want, Connor?”

And that is the exact point where I achieved the pinnacle of being a dumbass.’

Still kneeling, he leaned forward, his cheek to the ground, and very gently blew tiny breezes onto the bark. The little mound of leaves at the end of it reddened in synch with the blows. He sat back to look on proudly as his fire grew up.

At least he’d had time to watch the game. While the others had enhanced the power channelling with the Codex. He’d kind of hoped their saving 309 people’s lives would put his minor disrespect act into perspective and that, in their celebration, everyone would forget about the whole middle-of-nowhere arrangement. But vampires have this freakish memory… only equalled by vampires’ sons’ incapability to lose face.

He took off his long-sleeve-under-short-sleeve T-shirt, made it into a ball, and rested his temple on it, lying on his side, facing the fire and the mountain. He wondered what his eyes looked like with the reflection of the flames in them. He had his mother’s blue eyes. No yellow. He closed them. Soon he would be home. Playing Trivial Pursuit. He’d team up with Spike this time. More fun with the pink questions. His dad was all about brown and yellow. He smelled the air. The wood fire was in the way. It was all right, here. Not as harsh as before. Not as alone. He wasn’t alone. ‘He’s on that mountain,’ he thought. ‘Watching from above. Because that’s what he does. Because Angel by name…’

<center>* * * *</center>

The moon was still high and the fire right down when the engine roar woke him. He controlled a reflex to open his eyes. He didn’t need them open; the scent was as clear a picture as it got. The Land Rover door shut quietly. He’d not taken the Plymouth − they say that’s ideal for dimension-travel; hilltops: not so great. He heard his footsteps go round the campfire, felt him squat beside him. He recognised the noise of a stick scattering his embers.

‘I love you, Connor. Now get into my car.’

~ The End ~

_________________
Dr Foreman: -Do you understand what I'm saying?
Patient: -Of golf!


Last edited by Aissy on Wed Jul 05, 2006 4:07 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Tue Jul 04, 2006 6:08 pm 
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That was great! I liked the end. :D I liked this part a lot, too...

Quote:
They were all the same, though. Blood, foster, abducting-foster, fake-memory foster, fangs, no fangs… A father was a father. No matter how great the figure, how inspiring and awe-inspiring, every now and again, the sheer size inevitably ended up… in your way. Like, for example, what was the deal with the chivalry thing? He’d endured the lecture from his dad, once, had given some lip to his math tutor and the old man had overheard. That was no way to address a woman/girl/lady. Lest bad things befall you. That, he’d learnt from his previous − yet simultaneous − father. Because the fair sex also happened to be that of the witch. So he didn’t, generally, dis girls. Rule of thumb, pretty much.


And I loved the scenes where the bear came up! :lol Especially when it lay down at the foot of the tree and them thinking, Oh, no, don't go into hibernation here! :lol

:thumbsup :heart

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PostPosted: Wed Jul 05, 2006 4:26 pm 
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Thank you very much for reading, Gerry!! :heart Very sweet of you, especially as I know you're a "challenged" Angel fan. :lol: I can't imagine what state of utter confusion one must find oneself in reading this, who doesn't know Connor. ;) So I appreciate the gesture, it's like if I had to read a dozen pages of "Maria on a hilltop", when I haven't got a clue who she is... :) You really are a star, mate. :heart :heart

_________________
Dr Foreman: -Do you understand what I'm saying?
Patient: -Of golf!


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PostPosted: Wed Jul 05, 2006 6:30 pm 
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Joined: Sat Jul 02, 2005 11:11 pm
Posts: 1806
Location: South Florida
Aw, thanks, Aissy! :heart But lots of times I can enjoy a story without knowing the characters that well... if the story's good. :D Knowing the characters well is a plus but not always essential.

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Gerry
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PostPosted: Fri Aug 04, 2006 11:09 am 
I have to agree with Gerry, I think that your father analogy was funny! :) Good story. :)


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