just about 20 minutes ago, i half watched a movie called the Descent.
Possibly the scariest thing that you can watch, I was practically shaking. So i turned it off.
The reason why it has any relevance to this comment is that when you describe Scott, i can see him CLEARLY in my head, (and that is super cool) and when Tara fell and broke both of her legs, it reminded me of a scene in the movie (except that there was bones sticking out of that character's knee-i'm cringing as i type this)
but anyway, this is awesome. it's sorta gory, but not too gory, and how you gave more and more of the story away as i read on is excellent.
I'm looking forward to more of your works.

Great story... kinda dark...

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We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

WHAT ABOUT THE RING?!??

Dude.

That was intense.

I want to say I loved it, but that's not right. It is too harsh and hard and horrible for my response to be so simple. What I *loved* was how you worked the memories and the story line into Tara's dehydrationa and pain-fuled delerium. The question is, how did you work beautiful into a mass murder spree and a mangled woman next to a rotting lump of flesh? Because it was. Beautiful, that is. With the music by the fire and the clear starry nights and the kiss with the crunching of shale underfoot...


db

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I am, you know.

sorry.

double post.

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I am, you know.

Phoenix, I'd like to say, for the record, you write humor extremely well. It's not of the SNL variety, but you've got it girl! OK, (most) definitely not with this heavy-as-an-anvil tale, but hello! Althanea? She's one cheeky lady.

This story... I don't know what to say. It gave me kinda claustrophia to read it, but that's kinda what you wanted, huh? Thank god for the kissing buddy rays of sunshine. Still... Ai yi yi! This was a doozy!

I read "Lightning" and enjoyed it as just another example of your fine writing. It was wonderful as a one off, well written, sweet, fun.

Then you posted "Frozen", and I confess I've been reading it over and over again since you posted it. Really, in the past seventeen days I think I've read it five times. There's a lot of reasons for that, and I'm just now getting the chance to tell you.

Tara's grief is palpable, true to what I can only imagine such a loss would feel like. The idea of her frozen, cold to life and wishing she were at the bottom of that lake... there's something real about that that spoke to me.

Walking around her house and seeing all of the reminders of her wife was written very well, the picture frames that they fought over, the books that she always gives away and her wife always bought. These are the lived in details of a relationship, the minor things we only know about each other.

The bit about her shaving her head in solidarity with her wife, the medical bills, working, the overworked herione... all subtle hints to the truth of what happened, and I like it better than merely stating "cancer" or something equally as awful. The bit about her mother having nothing to say -- no one having any words for her felt again, like I imagine it would feel, everyone around you at a loss of what to say. I felt that deep in my bones.

Everything about Willow is warmth in this story. The heat of her bakery, the fact that she is indeed a baker (which I loved, incidentally), her adoration of Tara from the moment she sees her. The endearing, shy way she flirts with her. I understand why Tara would start to warm to new love with the cuteness of Willow here.

Also, the Dawn/Tara interaction as sisters is adorable and pitch perfect for their canon relationship, but I confess, I like them better here in your story.

In any case, I loved "Frozen". I haven't done a good enough job explaining why I'm sure, and honestly, I'm feeling my age these days because I'm losing my mind and memory to express myself the way I long to, but the short answer is, I loved, loved, loved it. I will keep reading it over and over again, and I hope this isn't starting to get creepy.

I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed it. (There's just something about the coldness of that back deck when she's wishing she could just disappear in comparison to the warmth of Willow's shop that I literally felt on my skin.) Alright, that's it! Thanks so much.

M.

PS -- I will get to "Saved"... I've read it, I'm just formulating some version of feedback.

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"This is not my life, or maybe it is..." -TEB

There's some more of my stuff over here: http://bonmot507.livejournal.com/

viewtopic.php?t=4929

Wow, Phoenix, this was very interesting. Disturbing, but interesting. Picturing Tara injured, and reading bit by bit how it happened, and watching her slip into delirium was the disturbing part, but that's really a compliment as to the talent of your writing. Then the end, her poor mind thinking it was Tripod to the rescue, actually made me chuckle, since the dog seemed to have green eyes and it's fur happened to be about the same color as Willow's hair. But yay, she was saved.

Great job, once again.


Wimpy

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Pam aka Wimpy0729
Restlessness ~ Quickies - The Lovers, The Dreamers & Me

"There was plenty of magic." ~~ Tara

stunning, simply stunning.

Anne

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Spells for Two

Every path has its puddle. Old English Saying... I think I just stepped in mine...

Phoenix - I love this story so much. I have to say that salvation is a recurring theme in your brilliant work. In Lightening, Tara needed salvation quite obviously but I think Willow did too. In Frozen, Tara desperately needed salvation and in The Lamb, I think we can agree that both women needed/need salvation. And here, perhaps more than anywhere else...

What I love so much about this story is the way you take one completely static position: Tara lying/sitting on smashed legs as she dies of heat exposure and blood loss and dehydration and use that setting to tell an absolutely complete story. Talk about efficiency of words. We know that Tara is a social worker and such a good person, Willow a graceful guide, both gay and falling in love, the dead body (Scott?) a creepo but a rich one, the psychotic who kills them all with the so sharp blade... And the portrait of dad kicking Tripod to death telling me more about Tara's childhood than I need to know even with more detail supplied. Donnie killing him and king of the trailer park. That phrase does it. Their stolen carresses and kisses...

And the last part is so fantasticaly wonderfully beautifully done genius. Tara confessing everything to "Tripod" as Willow, no doubt frantically searching for her clients and Tara more than anyone, shouts to the helicopter and the emergency personnel. Every line of that section tells us what we need to know.

The layering here is just superb and I don't know what else to say (also, my battery is running down).

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Menorah Tales | Working It Out | Random Bits

Phoenix.

I am addicted to your writing. I seriously think that every time you post you get better and better. Saved was so incredibly brilliant that I am doubting whether you can top it, but somehow, some way, I know that you will.

I have been writing for almost ten years, and I have written exactly two "going crazy" stories. They were both total crap. Because they are so hard to write believably. You drew Tara into dehydration so well, I just can't even say. I feel like I've been sitting outside for three days with her, baking in the sun. And the way you weaved in the backstory was simply masterful.

I loved your Willow and Tara in this one, and I will always love the little aside comments that you do in parentheses and separate lines. I've come to associate that trick with your style, and you do it so differently every time that it fits each story in its own way, but it's still Phoenix.

Amazing story, Phoenix. I think it was Hemingway who once wrote that all the guys who can paint great big pictures can paint great little ones. Short stories are sometimes more difficult than longer works. You are fabulous at it. You never waste a word. Keep doing the shorts amidst The Lamb, Phoenix. You're really great at it.

Oh, and favorite part: Tara playing the guitar for Willow. I felt like I was sitting at the fire with them and intruding on such a very private moment. I found myself wondering what the look on Scott's face would have been, but you excluded it so that Willow and Tara were the focus. And then you tied it in with Willow rescuing Tara at the end, and I knew that she felt the same way when Tara was playing for her. Beautifully written. Amazing.

Hey again!

Since we've already had a conversation about this work, I won't go into it again too much. Also, considering that I'm late to the party, there's not a lot I can add to what has already been said. I, like others, really love this story. Again, you've captured the elements of pain very neatly as Tara sits, broken and waiting for assistance. The story is pretty dark, but I like that when it's well conceived, and you've managed that in spades. While I have no desire to fall off a cliff and break both legs, I think I have a pretty good idea now of what it would feel like. Details, just like I mentioned in your feedback for "The Lamb," are what really elevates your writing and makes it such a joy to read.

Thank you again for another wonderful, dark, and interesting piece.

Diane

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The dlline Short Fic Thread

Well, wow. You've got a real gift for short stories - they're not abbreviated, you write complete, complex stories, finding a way to paint a whole picture in a short space of time. In all three fics so far you've chosen your moments so carefully - especially in 'Saved', I think, in creating that one space and set of circumstances, you're able to show us Tara's whole life in one brief moment in time. Everything that led her to where she is (and, finally, to be saved) goes through her then - and it's not just a matter of her having a flashback-fest, the way you keep bringing her thoughts back to the present, to where she is and what's happened to her, and find a new avenue to use that to explore her as a person, is really elegant.

Going back, 'Lightning' was a wonderfully vivid story - it really had the nature of lightning, short, intense moments of incredible power. Everything seems so immediate, having the story dwell only in the brief times when Tara's storm is near - the sense of the building storm, and the way it makes everything seem hurried, is palpable - and the references to the times in between, how Tara has changed Willow's life so completely, is a testament to how powerful their meetings are. And I especially liked Buffy's portrayal, how devoted she was to helping Willow once she'd seen the reality of Tara - she stood up for her friend, and both Willow and Tara are lucky to have her in their lives.

'Frozen' was, well, chilling - not in a scary sense, but in how a sense of despair settled over everything. And then on second reading, knowing what's actually going on, it's like a process of thawing - reading Tara getting to know Willow, knowing that it's the start of something new and warm, rather than leading to the cold of the earlier scenes. And that initial mistaken impression also had a very powerful result - as much as Tara's memories of her wife are so eloquently written and deeply heartfelt, the idea that it was Willow conveys - even after we know what's what - a vivid sense of how real their relationship is, since we're all heavily invested in Willow and Tara's relationship. Using that to give a sense of how much Tara loved her wife, even though she's a character we never meet, really rounds out Tara's feelings for her - as a reader, even without seeing Tara's wife, I could grasp how she could love her as much as we're used to her loving Willow.

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Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass - Every world needs a Willow and Tara.

After a long absence, I am returning ever so briefly to the board to share a couple of snippets with you. These are not completed fics, but you may read and choose between them which you would like me to attempt to focus on.

I am sorry to say that The Apothecary will be in indefinite hiatus - I am now considering it's potential as a novel, so I won't be posting any more updates to it in the foreseeable future.

My first offering to you of my snippets actually doesn't even have a title. So far, I've been calling it Horse. Enjoy!




The sun had a different texture here in California. It was a malevolent force, one to be shielded against, or at the very least tamed, with sunglasses or sunscreen or sunhats or whatever else was at hand. It was not seen as a lifegiver here; it was no more than the glowing orb that caused melanoma and stroke.

Sixteen year old Willow hated the California sun.

Obstinate, Willow did not put on her sunglasses as they exited the SUV. The sun was not the only bully of the early summer day; the air swaggered with the sharp tint of manure and feedlot. The scent of her mother's expensive perfume was apalling here in the farmyard. Sheila Rosenberg looked a caricature herself; she was wearing patent leather pumps and her favourite business suit. Despite the sun, she wore a silk scarf about her neck. It was the soft blue and red one, sold to her by a cripple in Marrakesh.

Willow hated her mother.

The sun was stabbing her in the eyes, so Willow finally shielded them. There were other people in the yard, most of them hanging about a corral with long stems of grass hanging from their mouths, screaming stereotypical hickville. One of the boys had a worn-out bulging circle in his back pocket from a container of chewing tobacco.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," Willow hissed at Sheila in Yoruba.

Sheila ignored her, trying not to stumble over the gravel in her patent leather shoes. A man was already making his way over to them. He, at least, was exhibiting a different stereotype. His Oxford shoes were gleaming, and Willow idly wondered how often he had to shine them to keep off the dust and grime of the farm. Like her mother, he disdained the military command of the sun, wearing a shirt that was buttoned all the way up and a lime green necktie.

Did a leprechaun dress him this morning?

"Awon onidon," Willow muttered, loud enough for her mother to hear.

"Willow Danielle Rosenberg!" Sheila snapped, glaring at Willow before trying to smile at the now somewhat flustered British man. He stuck his hand out first for her to shake and Willow scowled. Men should never be the first to extend their hands, had the man no propriety at all? Sheila offered her shapely, manicured hand and the man shook it like a limp fish, in the European tradition.

Neanderthal.

"Rupert Giles," he was saying.

"Sheila Rosenberg," her mother replied, "and this is my daughter Willow."

The man was now actually looking down at her. He stuck out his hand again, but Willow ignored it, looking in the direction of the corral. There was a girl riding a horse in the corral, in never-ending circles along the edge of the fence. Her face was flushed and alive, and she was actually laughing as if enjoying the torture of being on a horse's back. She was wearing a riding helmet, and sandy brown hair streamed from a ponytail underneath. The horse was moving in a quick yet graceful gait; Willow identified it as a canter only from books she had read.

"Willow, aren't you going to say hello to Mr. Giles?" Sheila asked, a honeyed threat in her voice.

"Ko le ye rara," Willow cursed sweetly, batting her eyelashes and rolling her eyes at him before returning her attention back to the corral. Even through the space between herself and her mother, Willow could feel Sheila's temper rising, brash and invasive as the California sun.

The girl on the horse was still laughing. Willow decided she hated her, too.

That monstrous beast she was riding was quite good at impersonating a sedate horse. Willow knew better. Nothing was as it seemed. It might look all calm and controllable on the outside, but on the inside the horse would just be some degenerate associate of cowboys and cowgirls, with their chapped lips and their overwhelming health and their checkered bandanas.

How many of them had been so hungry that their stomachs scraped against their spines like a washboard? How many of them had worked in the blazing sun until their hair was about to catch aflame and their bodies expire for want of water? How many of them had an incurable disease?

"What language are you speaking, Willow?" the insufferable man was asking, rudely interrupting Willow's thought process.

Degenerate. Doesn't even recognize a civilized tongue.

When Willow didn't answer, Sheila did. "It's Yoruba, Mr. Giles. We've been in Nigeria for the past six years."

"I see," he said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them with his handkerchief. Willow didn't even know that people still carried handkerchiefs. This prissy man was some throwback to the eighteenth century.

If this place didn't have the Internet, Willow knew she would go mad.

Finally getting the hint, the man ignored her as well, producing a clipboard for Sheila to peruse and sign. Though it was no more than a formality, Sheila did take her time reading the fine print, and every moment Willow was in the harsh California sun, the more Willow wished she could just hit her mother over the head with a rubber mallet and force her to take her back home to Africa.

"You're really serious about paragraph 27?" Sheila asked. She was tapping the pen against the paper in a rhythm Willow instantly recognized.

Drums were symbols of the lifeblood of the earth. The members of her tribe danced and sang to this rhythm, just as Willow did. Before.

"It's necessary," Mr. Giles replied without even glancing at the sheet. "There is to be no contact with Willow for at least three weeks. Not by phone, not by email, not even by messenger pigeon." He smiled, though his look was patronizing, and his voice was firm, and the attempt of humour was uncalled for.

Willow could have asked if a Hogwarts owl would be permitted, but then he might try to draw her into a conversation, which was the last thing she wanted right now. She had to punish her mother first by being an obstinate child.

The clapping and laughing continued. Whoopee. Girl riding a horse. Wow. The sound of hick happiness in her ears was as grating and artificial as nails being dragged down a chalkboard.

And Sheila was actually signing the thing. "I can't believe you're doing this to me," Willow hissed in Yoruba. "This is all your fault, but you can't stay and clean up the mess, can you?"

"Stop being a drama queen," Sheila replied in English. She handed the clipboard back to Mr. Giles and then disappeared behind Willow. The girl could hear the car door opening, the dinging that accompanied it, and the crunch of Willow's luggage on the ground.

"Here, allow me," Giles said, whipping past Willow, ostensibly to help. Before long, both of Willow's battered suitcases were lined up next to her, like obedient and mutinous little soldiers. Sheila handed Giles a check; Willow only knew that it was for ten thousand dollars because she had heard her parents arguing about the amount for weeks. Highway robbery was what Ira called it.

Abandonment was Willow's word.

"Please behave," Sheila said, bending to kiss Willow on the forehead. "Don't speak in Yoruba all the time, and don't sulk. Be respectful to Mr. Giles and the staff; they're only here to help you."

It was too painful to look at the girl riding the horse, now standing still by the corral, so Willow looked in the other direction, toward the emerald fields of grass ringed about with youthful and jagged mountains. She found she missed the sere and minimal colours of Abeokuta, the fertile Nigerian city at the juxtaposition of savannah and forest. She missed the pall of smog over the city, and the raucous engines of okadas; the motorcycles that were the most common form of transportation. She missed the tangy taste of Suya, the heavily marinated street meat enjoyed in the encroaching cool of the evening.

The Nigerians were delighted that she spoke their language; they worshipped her hair as if it were a sun.

Willow ignored her mother until her mother drove away, lifting a cloud of dust and trailing a stream of exhaust.

"Would you like a tour of the grounds, Willow?" Giles was asking.

"Just show me my room."

The people at the corral were staring at her. She could feel their interested gaze, fiery hot and intrusive. She very deliberately did not look at them; she only looked forward, mentally creating a count-down calendar in her head.

Eight weeks.

This would be the worse summer of her life.

Um, hello fortuitous random checking. Dibs?

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Lotus

I've missed you, Rach!

Jen

Second DIBS!

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BABY BLOG NOMADIC BLOG GEEKY T's
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. ~Helen Keller

Third dibs (it's totally a thing, I swear). And and a confused no-more-Apothecary-but-still-yay-at-something-posted tantrum/smile spaz, for good measure.

ETA

I'm liking this muchly and would definitely love to read more of it. In saying that though, I'd be completely chuffed to read anything you write. I know that's none-too-helpful feedback but it's entirely true nonetheless. Just write more something, anything, soon, kay?

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Blogness

Yay for good update-y goodness... Sad to hear that The Apothecary is on hold. I really love that story...

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We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

Yay!!! A new Phoenix story on the board! I love that Willow speaks Yoruba, your characters are always so well traveled. Curious as to why she has to go there for 8 weeks. Great start!
I hope everything works out with The Apothecary and a possible novel!
-anna

Trust me, Jen, all the better to see you!

Miss you back, glad life is swell.

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Lotus

Given the high quality of the other three stories in this thread, i think i'd pretty much like to read whatver you care to write. That said, however...my interest is now piqued in this snippet..

Continue please?

Oooh, keep this story going, I want to hear about Willow in Nigeria and why she's so bitchy!

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I'm under your spell...

I am the Queen of Mosquitoes personified, feel my annoying wrath! ~Willow, The Rose

False Euphoria ~~~ Eternity Again

Hmm. Very intriguing. good luck with the novelization of Apothecary.

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Menorah Tales | Working It Out | Random Bits

Feedback and a little more snippet!

Zooey's Bridge - The speed of your posting reminded me of the old days. I didn't expect it, but it was certainly fun! Thanks for winning the dibs. I hope you liked the snippet.

masterjendu[b] - Yes, second dibs counts. Especially for you. Enjoy the story!

[b]Owl - And third dibs. Excellent, especially coming from you, Owl. It's too bad about The Apothecary, but I'm having fun digging up these old relics on my computer and sharing them with you. Enjoy!

Zampsa - I know you loved The Apothecary. I hope you will enjoy these offerings as well while you wait for me to get published out in the real world.

irishgrl3 - I guess my characters are well traveled because I love to travel. It was fun trying to find Yoruban phrases for Willow. More will be revealed about Willow and her 8 week stay. Stay tuned!

Morrigan - High praise, that you'd read whatever I write. I hope that's true! Thanks for taking the time to comment, and enjoy the next snippet.

AmberGoddess - Willow really is bitchy, isn't she? You'll discover her reasons sooner or later. Thanks for commenting!

JustSkipIt - Good to hear from you. Thanks for the well wishes. I hope everything is well at hearth and home with the family.

That's everyone. In just a moment, I'll have an update for you...

Phoenix

Horse - Snippet Two


Ten thousand dollars and Willow didn't even have her own room. If her mother hadn't already taken away her cell phone, Willow would have immediately called to complain. The room was spacious enough, with two single beds covered with patchwork quilts set against the walls. The dressers were mismatched, and the small bookshelf was scarred with the initials of the other inmates abandoned here by their families.

The wall surrounding the near bed was empty of all decoration. The wall surrounding the far bed was a riot of colour. A massive collage spanned the entire wall, with cut-out pictures of horses and gardens and waterfalls and rainbows. It was cutesy enough to make Willow want to gag. Plus, there seemed to be Christmas lights strewn over the wall as well, with the tiny multicoloured bulbs.

Great. A hippie.

"You will be sharing your room with Tara Maclay," Giles was saying. He had placed her luggage on the near bed and then retreated to stand in the doorway, polishing his glasses yet again.

Willow knew a sorcerer in Nigeria who could get rid of that compulsion for him, and it would only cost him a crate load of chicken feet.

"She the girl on the horse outside?" Willow asked, getting the connection between the laughing brown-haired girl and the pukesy pictures on the wall. Her heart sank.

"Yes," he replied. "You also share the same bathroom, right through here." He pointed to a door, adorned with chipped paint, and it had an old-fashioned red glass knob. Uncomfortable silence ensued, and then he cleared his throat and said, "Well, why don't you unpack, make yourself at home. There are supplies in the desk over there if you want to put up some pictures."

Willow snorted in response. Yeah, right. Home.

Home was Nigeria, and before that home was India. This vomitous encapsulation of hicksville could never be home.

"Dinner is at six. Come when you hear the bell."

Great. They have us trained like dogs.

Mr. Giles finally left, shutting the door behind him. Willow wasn't sure how much time she had before Miss Rainbow Horsebreath returned from her ride.

She wheeled her wheelchair as close to the bed and her luggage as she could, then flipped on the brake. Tugging the zipper open, the first thing she pulled out of her luggage was a picture of a young man with a sardonic grin on his face, leaning over a microphone with a guitar in his hands. She kissed the picture and then she set it on her bedside table. Right next to it went the book she was currently reading, "Gone with the Wind."

Tugging the suitcase closer to the dresser, Willow had to lean somewhat to open the drawers and stuff in her clothing. Most of it was still new; the clothes she had worn in Africa were still at home with her commandeering mother. Only the gele was thoroughly worn. She had had a long and impassioned argument with Sheila regarding her favourite gele headscarf - not that she would ever wear it here, but at least it still smelled like Africa. Sheila actually wanted to wash it before abandoning Willow here.

Despite having to manoeuvre throughout the room in her wheelchair, it only took Willow fifteen minutes to unpack all her belongings. Only one suitcase held clothing; the other one held her favourite books and DVD's. Her computer and mp3 player were packed with music. Willow certainly was not about to spend the next eight weeks reading whatever trash these neophytes had in their shelves; for all she knew it would comprise solely of Louis L'Amour and Harlequin novels. The tiny bookshelf they provided was soon crowded.

Lastly her lifeline. From her backpack she withdrew her laptop, placing it on the desk that was on her side of the room (the desk on the other side of the room was untidy, with cluttered papers and different coloured pens strewn across the top). Willow grew frustrated when she couldn't find a power bar for her laptop. She peered and found an outlet out of her reach. It would take getting out of her wheelchair, plugging in the power cord, and then the painstaking process of getting back into her wheelchair.

Willow decided she hated everyone in this God-forsaken tomb.

Willow locked the wheels and, gritting her teeth, she slid from the chair on to the hardwood floor. There she sat on the corner of a circular hokey rag mat, fishing for the outlet. She managed to plug in the power cord.

Then, for at least a whole minute, Willow contemplated the best way of hefting herself back into her chair before anyone could see her, especially her new roommate.

Heaving breaths and grunting a Yoruban curse or two, Willow finally pulled herself upright again. She immediately turned on her laptop, plugged in a mouse, and impatiently waited the four seconds it took the brand new machine to boot up.

"C'mon baby, give me a wireless signal," Willow chanted under her breath, flicking on the switch that would tell her laptop to start searching for available wireless networks. To her delight, there popped up, "Healing Acres", the name of the internment camp she was now a prisoner of.

And a prompt for a password.

"Shit," Willow said. tasting the unfamiliar English swear word on her tongue. She hadn't entirely planned on going to dinner at the tolling of the bell, but now she would, just so she could ask Mr. Giles what the password for the network was. Just because she wasn't supposed to communicate with her mother didn't mean she had to cut off communication with the rest of the world, right? This was an upscale intensive physiotherapy joint masquerading as a ranch, not some reclusive Tibetan monastery.

Even Tibetan monks get email, right?



To be continued...

Phoenix

oh, I missed you and your amazing words! I hope you´re ok ^^

*hugs*

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- Proud Warrant Officer of the Kitten Army - Semper WillTarus!! -

My Heart Draws a Dream
True Colors of Love
A Crazy Little Thing Called Mutation

Yay for great update-y goodness... Willow sure is in bad place... I hope that Tara very soon starts to heal her... I'm also wondering how Willow ended in a wheelchair...

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We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

It's so, so good to see you back Jen, email me if ever you want me to look over something, you know how I love it! These snippets are teasing me, I want to know more! But then I'd also want to know what would further happen to our girls in the Apothecary and especially how The Lamb carries on from where you left it off and the other snippets you have teased me with

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My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly - my friends
~The Show Must Go On by Queen

Yay! Second chapter!
I am looking forward to Willow's first interaction with Tara. I imagine it will be interesting with Willow thinking she is so much more "superior" than these hicks.
Am also wondering about Willow being in a wheelchair and that back story. Hmmm....

This really cracked me up!

Great update,
-anna

Hello everyone,

I have a very limited amount of time, so I won't be feedbacking to feedback right now. Suffice it to say, I'm pleased at punch for my nomination for The Apothecary. Makes me want to work on it some more. I'm thinking that I'll resurrect it when I'm done writing the second draft of Mistletoe, so stay tuned!

Here's another part of the previous snippet!



Willow deliberately waited at least three minutes after the bell rang before even starting to make her way to the dining room. It had been pointed out to her earlier as she wheeled herself behind Mr. Giles when he showed her to her room. There was a light murmuring coming from that direction as Willow wheeled herself down the hallway.

To her dismay, she found everyone seated when she arrived. Mr. Giles was at the head of the table, and a summery woman with a tawny mane of hair was at the foot. Facing her along the far edge of the table were two boys and Miss Rainbow Horsebreath, and only one person was sitting in a chair on the near side of the table, next to the cavernous space that was obviously meant for Willow's wheelchair.

Giles stood up as she wheeled in, and mostly everyone turned to look at him instead of staring at her. One of the boys winked at her. "I'd like you all to welcome Willow Rosenberg," Giles said. You all remembered how it felt to be new here, so please help her feel at home."

The two boys had obviously been through this bland initiation before, for as soon as Giles sat down, they began introducing themselves.

At least they didn't stand up at attention, like the little soldiers they were.

"Hi, my name is Xander," the tousle-headed gangly-looking one said. "Xander Harris, sixteen years old, and I like reading comic books, watching kung fu movies, and drinking root beer until I can belch the entire alphabet."

Ew. Willow would have frowned in sheer horror at the thought of everyone introducing themselves in a like manner if she thought it would do any good. Did these people put some sort of happy drug in all the food?

"Hey, my name is Jesse McNally," the next boy said. "I'm seventeen, I like watching movies, beating Xander at belching contests, and I like to do impersonations. Check this out." He tried to straighten his face, pulled down an imaginary mustache, and then he said, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Willow didn't laugh, and her stony expression killed what little laughter there was. She hoped it was mere coincidence that he had quoted Rhett from "Gone with the Wind", because if there was a secret knot-hole that revealed her bedroom, to be used for a panting voyeur, Willow would throttle him and make it look like a root beer accident.

The girl who would be her room-mate was smiling, though her smile faded as Willow stared at her dinnerplate. "I'm, uh, Tara Maclay," she said, rather slowly. "I'm also sixteen. I like horses and Ingrid Bergman movies and chocolate."

"Is there going to be a pop quiz about all this?" Willow suddenly asked, looking at her. Tara turned bright red and looked down at her plate.

"So she speaks," the girl sitting next to her said. "In English, no less. I am sixteen year old Buffy Summers, IQ 280." Jesse and Xander began to snort, so Buffy smoothly continued with, "Laugh it up fuzzball and I'll introduce you to Mr. Right Hook. I like boys with fast cars, boys with good clothes, and boys that smell good. Which is neither of those two over there. Seriously, guys. Dead fish smell better than you."

"You smell dead fish?" Jesse asked innocently. "Do you see dead people?"

Buffy started to give Jesse the finger when there was a sharp cough from the woman at the end of the table. Willow successfully fought down the smile that tried to invade her face, and the woman, making up the last of the introductions, said, "And I'm Joyce Summers. I own this ranch, though Mr. Giles is the ranch manager."

Great. Funny girl was related to this woman, which probably meant she got her own room for less than ten thousand dollars.

There was a moment of silence, as everyone tried not to look at her. "Uh, Willow, would you like to introduce yourself?" Giles finally asked, breaking through the uncomfortable silence with a sledgehammer.

"I don't see the point. They all know my name."

The boys rolling their eyes at each other did not escape her notice.

"Right, then," Giles said, a hint of weariness in his voice. "Tuck in, everyone."

It was if someone had unleashed a pack of hyenas upon a downed zebra. Buffy, Jesse, and Xander all reached for the dish of roast beef at the same time; Buffy won the short tug-of-war by nearly jabbing Xander's hand with her fork. Again Willow had to force her face into the serene distant majesty of Kilimanjaro and not smile at all. Buffy and the boys heaped their plates with the generous offerings of food: roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas swimming in a butter sauce, sauteed mushrooms, grilled carrots and asparagus and white buns with butter.

Tara seemed to follow the civility of the adults. She didn't say a word as she loaded her own plate, until she looked right at Willow and asked, "Could you pass the pepper, please, Willow?"

Willow looked down to the shakers. She could feel the intentful eye of Mr. Giles upon her and somehow knew that the man had deliberately placed the salt and pepper in front of her plate, just so she would have to interact with everyone else.

Her mouth clamped in a thin line, Willow handed over the pepper. It seemed as if Tara wanted to mumble thanks, but she didn't.

Willow was ravenous, yet she only took a tiny portion of food, and picked at it so they would leave her alone. At her side, Buffy was jabbering between mouthfuls, relaying a story about what had happened to poor Principal Flutie.

"A pig in his office?" Xander asked innocently. "You don't say?"

"Speaking of pigs," Joyce said, raising her voice over the din, "I discovered that little Wilbur was missing from the barn this morning. I certainly hope that he wasn't involved in any hooliganism. I can't afford to send him to pet therapy."

"I'm merely interested to discover how the pig made his daring escape," Giles drawled. He was holding his fork in his left hand, cutting the meat with a knife in his right, which Willow immediately recognized as a European custom. "I can't imagine how easy it would have been to smuggle him inside the school."

"S'all Xander," Jesse said with his mouth full. "He's a pig whisperer."

Tara giggled into her food while Buffy laughed outright.

Willow pushed the peas around on her plate, until they formed the border of Nigeria. She manoeuvred a pea to represent Abeokuta, the city in the southwest of Nigeria that she had sometimes lived in. It had a good hospital, especially for Americans with cold hard dollars, but it wasn't good enough.

It was Sheila's fault she got there too late to reverse the damage already done.

Willow felt a hard poke, and turned to face Buffy. "Earth to Willow," the girl was saying. Willow glared at her. It wasn't enough to stop her from continuing. "Weigh in, Willow. Brad Pitt or Matthew Mcconaughey?"

Willow went back to the peas, sending one to stand in as Lagos, and another as Ibadan. She wanted to go back to her cell and sniff her gele and rain a thousand curses upon her mother.

Unfazed, Buffy directed her question to Tara. "Tare, Brad or Matthew?"

"Cary Grant, actually," Tara replied, looking between Buffy and Willow.

"Pfft," Buffy hissed, lunging for the last little heap of mashed potatoes. A mock swordfight ensued between she and Xander, or rather their forks, and she won. "Woohoo!" she cried.

"Gloating is bad for the complexion, Buffy," Joyce said.

Willow couldn't take it anymore. "May I be excused?" she asked, already lifting the brakes and backing away from the table. She began a minute examination of the tablecloth while she waited for her answer. Not that she cared whether she was allowed to leave or not. What were they going to do, tie her to the table and force-feed her?

"If you wish," Giles said softly, and there was the softest hint of pity in his voice. Willow wanted to run over his toes with her wheels in response.

She turned as soon as she had enough room to do so, and went back down the hallway as fast as she could. She would have to ask about the wireless password later.



Enjoy!
Phoenix