May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day

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Admin!
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 4, 2011 22:26:06 GMT -5

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Post by Admin! on May 4, 2011 22:26:06 GMT -5

It's writing challenge time again. To enter, just post a ficlet (300-2000 words) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The challenge: Write a story about Mothers. Motherhood, Mother's Day, surrogate Mother figures, they all count. As always, interpretations are up to you.

The rules:

Characters must be Hammel-related, but the ficlets are not site canon.
Alternative universe interpretations of characters are allowed.
Entries must be between 300 and 2000 words.
You can enter no more than three ficlets.
Ficlets must be titled.

Rhett Goddard
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my soul was removed to make room for all this sarcasm

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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 6, 2011 10:23:30 GMT -5

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Post by Rhett Goddard on May 6, 2011 10:23:30 GMT -5

though no names were included, it's a sort-of alternative universe Rhett in his childhood.

-----
Growing Up

1999
The five year old got up early that morning. He passed through the garden of roses and lilies, smelling each one of them. He then walked through the wheat field, it made him happy. He arrived at the town’s market, one busy place. He bumped into dozens of people in the way towards the shop: he was so small, people barely noticed. Each one apologized with a smile: he was so beautiful people couldn’t stop themselves from doing so. At his destination, he asked for all he could afford and then proceeded back home.
He gave her mother chocolates and the nicer perfume he could find.
Happy mother’s day, he said with a hug.

2000
The six year old got up early that morning. He stopped in the garden and looked at each lily with a smile. He then ran through the wheat field, it scared him: he had seen one terrible movie about awful children among a similar field. With little air, he arrived at the market, it was less than full. He bumped into every person in his way, they were all so careless, they all continued walking as if nothing had happened. At his destination, he asked for that one thing he knew she’d like and proceeded back home.
He gave her mother chocolates.
Happy mother’s day, he said with a smile.

2001
The seven year old got up late that morning. He slowly walked through the garden with his head, looking at the sky only. He then walked through the field, he remembered wheat in it no more than a year ago. In the afternoon he arrived at the town’s market, there had been a robbery and people were all staring at the police as they investigated. At his destination he asked the one thing from the store he could actually afford and proceeded back home.
He gave her mother a card.
Happy mother’s day, he said softly.

2002
The eight year old got up that noon. He walked through the dirt outside their house trying to avoid stepping in the mud. He then sneaked his way through the construction, he could not let anyone see him or he would be reported as a trespasser. Later, he arrived at the town’s market, only some people here and there. At his destination, he begged the clerk anything at all and proceeded back home.
He gave her mother a candy.
Happy mother’s day, he said, looking away.

2003
The nine year old got up that afternoon. He dragged his feet with discontent through the mud. He walked through the back of some buildings he heard were called greenhouses. He arrived at the market: a place filled with beggars and petty thieves, he did his best to avoid them all. At his destination, he begged the clerk for a gift and then proceeded back home.
He gave her mother nothing.
Happy mother’s day, he said in his way to his room.

2004
The ten year old heard his mother and some man scream that morning like they had been the last months. While his mother screamed affirmations, the man screamed a word he did not know of: God. He was too afraid to leave his bedroom in all day that morning.

2005
The eleven year old got up early that morning. He ignored the mud outside his house while walking through it. He took a bus which he paid in high denomination bills. He arrived at the other end of the town. He bumped into every single person he could and continued forward, snatching as many wallets as he could. He took another bus and arrived at the market, smiling and greeting every other low-life in the place, he knew them all by now. At his destination, he bought chocolates and perfume and proceeded back home.
He couldn’t find his mother anywhere.
He waited for days, but she never came back.

2011
The seventeen year old got up almost at nighttime that day. He walked out of his dorm and through the courtyard, avoiding as many students as he could. He took a cab and arrived later at the town. He eyed most stores though they were all mostly closed. At the one store open he bought some things and took another cab. He arrived at the lake: it was alone, just as him.
He sat in the grass opened the bottle of wine and drank while eating his mother’s favorite chocolate.
Happy mother’s day wherever you are, he said as he laid down looking at the stars.

Rhett Allexander Goddard:
A carefree, rather bothersome, boy with quick hands, quick feet and the ability to make you mad.

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Eliora Ish-Shalom
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 6, 2011 19:37:34 GMT -5

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Post by Eliora Ish-Shalom on May 6, 2011 19:37:34 GMT -5

Landslide

It kept mocking her. It was a hazy shade of purple, or was it mauve? The dying rays of light fell over the empty living room, the struggle of the sun against dusk gave out. Periwinkle specks came in and out of focus to tired eyes, eyes too weak to look at it much longer. Tall, simple in shape, with a few cracks, the vase stood alone on the coffee table, though no coffee was had there for years. The clank of silver on silver broke the silence in her apartment while a solitary plate, knife, and fork sat in the sink, Eli sliding them in without much care. How long had it been since this vase held flowers? It took a few minutes of Eliora looming over the pottery for her to remember. Finger by finger, she loosened her gloves and tossed them on the loveseat. Did she dare? She wasn't always one to flirt with truly remembering, often avoiding the process. She looked down at her hands, trembling softly as they hovered over the vessel. It was as empty as ever, desolate, and void of the flourishing life of vines and petals. Void of its purpose.

One hand cupped the bottom, the other covering the top. Night twisted into day, sunshine on full blast streaking through the windows. A pair of half empty mugs sat side-by-side, a familar hand, gloved, reaching out for one of the handles. God, the taste of that coffee was too strong, the smell just made her crinkle her nose, but it was soon buried in his neck with her morning kisses when he joined her on the sofa. Every morning, no matter how much she nagged him to half the strength, Charlie made coffee too caustic and too harsh for Eliora's liking. Yet she drank anyway, cup filled to the brim with cream and sugar. Redolent lilacs brought a smile; the blooms were paired with sword lilies, roses, and hyacinths. The colors played well with the vase they came in, according to the clerk. Eli thought it was a colorblind mess. He tried.
"I think I felt a kick."
Her distended belly was sickeningly comical compared to the rest of her little body which made his patting and rubbing of it even more fun.
"It's too soon to feel those. Quickening happens at eighteen or nineteen weeks. We've got a bit to go."
He leaned over to press his ear to her belly. A giddy grin followed, bordering on goofy.
"I can totally hear it. Him. Her?"
Eliora simply ran her fingers through his curls.
"Mmmhm."
Charlie looked back up at her.
"Happy mother-to-be day."

Nothing. For a moment, Eliora thought the memory was done. The universe was not so kind.

"Open the door Eli! I said open the goddamn fucking door!"
Their voices went the battle: her crying, and his yelling. The door was about to give out; Charlie had been pounding in the same spot for what seemed like an hour, though was only minutes. In those same minutes, two hand towels, once pristine white, were now soaked red. It covered everything. A malignant wildfire would've spared more, but it left her hands, the nightgown, the bedsheets burnt in blood. They would all wait and fester as she hastily cleaned up, a wretched reminder. The EMTs shuffled haphazardly through the living room, bumping the vase to the ground. Its contents remained in tact and as beautiful as they were that morning, but the vase bore cracks, slowly creeping across the surface.
Usual protocol following hemorrhage came: IV's flowing saline and packed blood cells, constant vital checks, and something out of the ordinary: a seething husband in the corner. His lament was quiet at first, but crashed over her suddenly, violently, and left as fast as it came. A landslide.

An ultrasound two days later revealed a hollow womb. It was as empty as ever, desolate, and void of flourishing life. Void of its purpose.

Eli set the vase down, sank onto the loveseat, and wept.

Danny Silverman
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 9, 2011 13:57:14 GMT -5

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Post by Danny Silverman on May 9, 2011 13:57:14 GMT -5

Mother's Day Calls

Danny was many things, but he didn’t think anyone had called him observant, ever. He always tended to miss the more obvious things. Like when a boyfriend was unhappy with the status quo, when a client’s insistence on changing the color of the backboard was really an indication of a bigger problem with the model, or even the simple thing of a green light when a red was necessary to cross.

So he wasn’t quite sure what made him notice the man on the bench that Mother’s Day as he’d been taking his usual stroll through the park to enjoy the green that had been so rare in L.A. Normally, he only would have taken a look and then would have continued past. It wasn’t like the man was unusual. Short-cropped dark hair, a well-built frame, and dressed in nice clothes. However, something in the posture drew his attention. The way he was slumped just slightly on the bench, maybe, or the way his eyes kept staring down at the old-fashioned flip phone in his hand, which he was slowly flipping open and shut with blunt rounded nails. And somehow, the non-observant Danny put this together with Mother’s Day, and came up with a pretty unhappy conclusion. Poor fellow. He looked like he could use some cheering up. So instead of continuing past, he instead sat down on the bench next to the fellow and offered him a cheerful smile. The man glanced up from his phone.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely as he slipped it into his pocket.

“I don’t think so,” Danny admitted. “I just like this bench. Danny Silverman. I just moved here.” He offered his hand. The man still looked a little skeptical, but he took it anyways.

“Josef Muller. Pleased to meet you.” The man still looked uncomfortable with this attention. Danny suspected he’d been hoping to spend some time alone, probably brooding. Well, it was always good to have someone change your plans, and Danny didn’t plan to take a lot of this man’s time anyways.

For a while, the two just spoke of inconsequential things. Danny asked if he came here a lot. Josef said no. Josef asked if Danny liked Pilot Ridge. Danny’s answer was firmly in the affirmative and included a long rant about the beauties of the small town. That coaxed a reluctant smile out of the other man, and with only a little more prodding, Danny had eventually managed to get him to ease up.

And that was when he broached the topic.

“Have you called your mother yet?”

The man’s smile, so recently won, vanished. But instead of looking angry, he just looked a bit sheepish. That was a step in the right direction. “I, uh, that’s kind of a long story.”

“Difficult relationship?” Danny asked, ready to offer his sympathies. The smile, to his delight, reappeared, almost as if it were surprised at itself.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I do love my mother, very much. But she and I…” he shrugged. “We tend to disagree on things. And I feel like she always brings up the things I’ve done wrong whenever I try to talk to her. It’s a bit…well, annoying.”

“Did you send her something?”

Josef nodded, seeming surprised that Danny would assume that he hadn’t. “Of course. I do every year. Flowers and cards, but she always complains about them being the wrong kind of flowers. Or that I’m not there to develop them. I used to send chocolates, but then she accused me of trying to ruin her diet, and I just…” He seemed to realize that he was ranting and rubbed the back of his neck, a faint tinge of red appearing on his cheeks. “Sorry. I sometimes feel like Mother’s Day is more of a challenge to show how much I love her than me actually showing how much I appreciate her. Only I don’t think she sees the difference.”

“Probably not,” Danny agreed without missing a beat. The man blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

“She probably doesn’t. She probably thinks it’s the same thing. My mother’s the same way. I always have to try to find the perfect gift, and she pouts if I don’t find the right thing.” Danny laughed. “I think it’s kind of fun.”

Josef still looked slightly confused.

“How do you do it?” he asked at last. “How can you stand it?”

“Well.” Now it was Danny’s turn to shift, because he knew this was always an uncomfortable topic, but he went along with it anyways. “I didn’t have a mother for the first fifteen years of my life. I don’t mind making it up for it now. And no, she’s not perfect, but she’s still my mom.”

Bafflement had been replaced by concern. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How would you?” Danny shrugged, and his good cheer returned just like that. Unlike his newfound friend—and Danny had officially decided he was a friend, just like that—Danny was not the type to brood. “Besides, why be sorry? It wasn’t your fault. But it made me appreciate my mom a lot more, in all forms, because I had one. And because I knew that, no matter how finicky she could be about Mother’s Day, she always loved me. I’m sure your mom feels the same way.”

Josef studied the other man for some time, then nodded, slowly. His smile had reappeared, and he honestly looked…cheered. Or, more cheerful than he’d been when Danny had first seen him.

“Thanks, Danny,” he said, and Danny rather thought he meant it. “I…I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Danny beamed at him. “And worst case, give me a call, huh? I’m really good at finding Mother’s Day presents.”

Thanks to Kayla and Nu for the awesomeness.<3

Elaine Tonaya
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 16, 2011 23:34:36 GMT -5

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Post by Elaine Tonaya on May 16, 2011 23:34:36 GMT -5

Mother’s Day

Cassandra Emily Sherwood Tonaya
May 18, 1941-September 23, 1979
Beloved Wife and Mother

[/i]

Bethlehem, New Jersey: Sacred Heart Cemetery, May 8, 2011:

Elaine arrived at the cemetery at 7:30 in the morning, long before most visitors would be arriving. The grass was still damp with dew and last night’s watering. She walked slowly along the gravel pathways toward the back fence, where her mother’s grave rested.

It had been almost 32 years since her mother had passed away. Elaine had been coming to visit on Mother’s Day for the past twenty years or so. At first she would park outside the cemetery and wait for an hour to make sure that none of her family was inside, but now she knew that if she came early in the morning no one else would be up and visiting. This way she could avoid having to confront her sister or father.

This was a holiday just for her and her mother.

The grave was well-kept. Elaine didn’t have time to visit often, but she suspected that her father came by more regularly, since there always seemed to be flowers left behind. Now she brushed away a few withered stalks and placed her own small offering in their place. She had picked some dandelions, both bright yellow and snowy white, and she rested these carefully near the headstone.

When Elaine was little, she would always pick dandelions and bring them in for her mother. Cassandra would smile and place the yellow buds in her messy bun of brown hair, thanking her daughter and asking how she knew that dandelions were her favorite flower. Then she would ask if they could make brownies together, since the food always seemed to taste better when they made it together.

After the cancer came, Elaine would rely on that previous cooking experience. She never believed that the dishes tasted right, though, and to this day she felt that her best baking was done when she was ten years old, cooking with her mother.

The worst thing about when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer was watching how painful it was for her. For a while everything was all right and they were able to go on with life. But slowly it started to eat away at first her strength, then the rest of her. Elaine had to watch her mother dying in front of her eyes, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. There was nothing that could ease the pain.

Deirdre had been 7 when their mother had been diagnosed, and Anthony was only 4. For the first year they managed to pretend that life was still normal, but Elaine could see how hard it was becoming for everyone. There was a new strain on the family, and it was the kind that had the potential to break them all apart. In trying to keep the house running, Elaine’s grades began to slip at school. There were several times when their father, Eugene, almost lost his job because of a missed deadline.

And, of course, just when it seemed like the problems for the family could not become any worse under all the medical bills and sadness, Elaine developed a new disease. That was how she saw it at first, though she realized later that it was a blessing. Her power wasn’t harming anyone—no one even knew exactly what her power was, but she still had to go to a new school and leave her family. Just when they had been getting back on their feet, everything changed again, and suddenly Deirdre was in charge of the household when she was only 11 years old.

Elaine didn’t blame her sister for hating her. Sometimes she hated herself for abandoning her family like that. She hated herself for being happy to go, for being happy once she was at school. She missed her mother and missed her family, but she was glad to no longer have to deal with them. And just as strong as the happiness was the guilt, though she did her best to hide it. When Morgan came, it was a chance to prove that she could be part of a family, one that she would always love and never leave. Still, though, she’d never gained the courage to go back and talk to the family she had left so long ago.

Her father was still alive. He had to be, otherwise he would be buried here, next to his wife. Deirdre was certainly alive, probably living nearby. Elaine still exchanged Christmas cards with Anthony, who hadn’t known his oldest sister very well before she left and didn’t seem to have any prejudice against her. He had a wife and two children and was living in California. He seemed happy.

Elaine blamed herself for the destruction of her family. Even more, though, she blamed her mother. She knew it was wrong, that it wasn’t her fault for getting cancer, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“Why did you do it, Mother?” she whispered quietly, kneeling next to the headstone. “Why did you leave us, just when we all needed you?” Tears fell freely down her face. This was the only place in the world where she let herself cry.

When she was seven years old, Elaine had been climbing the great oak tree in the backyard and fell out, breaking her arm. She went inside crying, and her mother took her to the hospital. Her father had always told her when she was hurt that she didn’t have to cry, she was a big girl. So she took a big sniff and waited bravely while the doctor set her arm. Later, in the car, Cassandra turned to her daughter and gave her a big hug.

“It’s okay to cry, too,” she whispered. “Growing up doesn’t mean you have to stop crying. And I promise not to tell anyone. You can always cry on my shoulder.”

Around everyone else, Elaine had to be grown up. But when she was here, next to her mother, it was okay to just be a normal person again. So she curled up in a ball on the ground and cried, remembering all the bad things that had happened this year, as well as all the good. She let herself cry until she was out of tears, then stood and wiped her face. The dandelions were still looking up at her cheerfully.

Reaching down, she pulled out one old dandelion, its white seeds blowing gently in the breeze. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then blew off all the seeds in one breath. With a smile, she tucked the bare stem behind her ear and turned to leave.

There was still a long drive back to Pilot Ridge, and she had other people she wanted to see on this Mother’s Day. As she started on the journey home, she felt as though someone were watching over her, keeping her safe in spite of all the times she might have messed up. Maybe she was just imagining it, but she liked to pretend that her mother still looked after her. Maybe she never left, after all.

Last Edit: May 16, 2011 23:38:19 GMT -5 by Elaine Tonaya

Cobalt Weaver
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 17, 2011 1:46:08 GMT -5

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Post by Cobalt Weaver on May 17, 2011 1:46:08 GMT -5

Red Cookies and Yellow Daisies

Getting things by Elaine was no easy task. Whether it was her early manifested mom-senses (which were surprisingly strong in an nineteen-year-old girl) or just natural perceptiveness. But the fact remained, planning something for Mother’s Day and having Elaine not sniff it out (pun completely intended) was a little difficult. Somehow, through some miracle, he had managed to get Elaine out of the house (by strongly recommending she go to that study group), without arousing too much suspicion. He hoped. Either way, his friend was out, leaving the teenager and two-year-old Morgan beaming up at him. Cobalt adjusted his glasses and breathed a sigh of relief before kneeling down to Morgan’s height.

“Hey buddy, you know what day’s tomorrow?” Cobalt asked, as Morgan distractedly batted at Cobalt’s shadows.

“Nuh-uh. What?” The little boy shook his head, looking curious. Cobalt grinned and leaned in with a secretive smile. “It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow. You wanna make your mom something special?”

Morgan’s little face lit up with glee, “Yeah! What?”

“Well.” Cobalt straightened up and eyed the little kitchenette with some trepidation, “Your mama always makes really good cookies for us, right? So I figure, we can make some cookies for your mama,”

Morgan looked surprised, “No, Coba no cook.” The toddler shook his head, unwilling to believe such nonsense, “Mama cook.”

“I…can bake.” Cobalt gave Morgan a brief tickle, grinning as the boy giggled, “You wanna help?”

“Mnnn… I break eggs!” Morgan proclaimed

Cobalt laughed, “You drive a hard bargain. Yeah buddy, you can crack the eggs.”

-

“Wha’s this?”

“Uhhh… I think it’s part of the mixer, right?”

“Iunno.”

“…We don’t need the mixer. We can mix it with spoons, right?”

“Thasn’t what Mama does.”

“Yeah… well, it’ll turn out okay.”

-

“Okay, I think we can pour in the flour.”

“’Kay!”

“No, Morgan, wait!”

FOOM

“…Morgan. We wanted to pour the flour that was in the measuring cup. Not the flour in the bag.”

“Hee hee hee… S’in you hay.”

“Well, it’s gonna be in your hair in a second!”

“EEEE!”

-

Eventually, both boys (and the kitchen) were covered in flour and giggling stupidly, but they successfully had a large bowlful of reasonably decent-looking cookie dough. Cobalt wiped some flour from his glasses and grinned down at the little boy, “So how’s it look, Morgan?”

“Mmmm…” Morgan scrutinized the bowl of cookie dough, “Should be red.”

Cobalt blinked, looking from the boy to the cookie dough, “…Red?”

“Yeah! Mama likes red.”

“Uhhh…” Cobalt considered this a moment before shrugging, “Okay. D’you guys have food dye?”

Morgan pointed at the cupboard and Cobalt followed his direction. Pulling out a small vial of red food coloring he waved it triumphantly and Morgan bounced on top of his blue stepstool happily. “I pour! Gimme.”

Cobalt looked dubious, “Um… No kiddo, I think I should do it.”

Morgan affixed his sad (and vaguely affronted) blue eyes at Cobalt. “I pour!” He insisted, reaching out imploringly

Cobalt sighed, weak to the power of Morgan’s sad eyes, “Sure, sure, sure. Here you go. How much d’you think we should put in?”

“All of it!”

“Hahaha. Sounds good to me.”

-

It took the cookies eleven minutes to bake, according to the bag, so Cobalt took the time to clean the kitchen while Morgan made a Mother’s Day card full of squiggles and marker scratches. When the timer rang, both Morgan and Cobalt perked up, both rushing to the oven in anticipation. Cobalt ushered Morgan back a little bit before pulling on Elaine’s pink oven mitts that had owl faces on them (which Cobalt thought looked completely ridiculous). Slowly, Cobalt reached into the still-scorching oven and pulled out the pan. Both boys stared at the cookies for a moment, trying to decide how they felt about them.

“Not very red.” Morgan observed.

“No. But they’re…kinda pink. That’s close, right?” Cobalt and Morgan both shrugged. The cookies didn’t look very bad. A little misshapen, and Cobalt was pretty sure he could see eggshell poking out of one (he made a mental note to take care of that). But all in all, they looked like regular cookies. Cobalt felt a little smug.

“Well, cool. Go get your card. We’ll put ‘em on a plate and wait for your Mama to come home.”

Morgan grinned, and bounced up and down in elicit approval, shrieking, “Yaaay!” Cobalt grinned before setting to work on the delicate business of scooping the cookies off the tray and setting them on a plate. Baking was hard.

-

When Elaine came home, Morgan was all but bursting with excitement. The moment she got through the door, he sprinted to her side, almost shrieking. “Mama! Mama, look, Uncle Coba...Coba and me..we...” Cobalt grinned lopsidedly as Morgan struggled with his own two year old limited vocabulary. Eventually, he took pity on the little boy, “Morgan and I made you something.”

“What did you make?” She asked Morgan, eyeing Cobalt with mock-suspicion.

“Yeah, we make cookies." Morgan paused for a second, looking from the cookies to Cobalt to his mother, "Red cookies. Yummy cookies. Come eat!" Cobalt snickered, “We made them for Mother’s Day.”

Elaine blinked, looking completely caught off guard. “Mother’s Day?” She asked Cobalt as Morgan all but dragged her into the kitchen.

“Sure.” Cobalt shrugged, grinning, “You’re the best mom I know. And I could actually count as an objective source on moms.”

Elaine snorted, “You are terrible.”

“Look!” Morgan called, pointing to the lumpy, pink-ish cookies and crumpled card. They did, however, manage to track down some presentable daisies that were perched in a tall, plastic water glass. Cobalt rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “I couldn’t find a vase. But we made the cookies ourselves.”

“Red cookies!” Morgan explained loudly, looking proud of himself, “You like it?”

Elaine laughed and scooped Morgan into her arms, “It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten. Thank you, baby.” She kissed him on the cheek and Morgan laughed, looking thrilled. Cobalt smiled before quietly stepping back to the door to grab his backpack and slip on his shoes. He had one shoe in hand when Elaine rounded the corner, leaning against the wall with a grin on her face.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Without waiting for him to reply, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him back to the kitchen, “Don’t you know that this is a family holiday?” She rolled her eyes at Cobalt’s awkward expression, “Honestly, Coby. You actually baked. And the house isn’t on fire.”

“W-well…” Cobalt stammered, trying to keep a broad grin from spreading across his face, “I just hope it tastes okay.”

Elaine shrugged, grinning, “The food always tastes better when you cook it together.” Her smile turned slightly nostalgic before squeezing his hand, “Besides, Morgan would be so sad if you left. Also, I don’t think you got all the eggshells out of the cookies, so you’re going to have to taste-test.”

Cobalt laughed, “Fair enough.”

Last Edit: May 17, 2011 1:46:44 GMT -5 by Cobalt Weaver

Dr. Terrence Jordan
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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 19, 2011 16:38:09 GMT -5

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Post by Dr. Terrence Jordan on May 19, 2011 16:38:09 GMT -5

The Mother Ship

Terrence awoke with a dull throbbing in his temple. His first realization was that he couldn't move, even to turn his head. He cracked one eye open, then the other, though the only observation he could make about the room he was in was that it had a domed ceiling.

The whir of machinery sounded unexpectedly and he found himself upright, facing his reflection. Odd, whatever material the mirror was made of was almost unnaturally clean. There were no streaks across it, no scratches, no glare from the light hitting it at an odd angle.

A smirk crossed his reflections face. "You're awake."

The voice was his, but he hadn't spoken. He knew he hadn't, despite the movement of his reflection's lips.

"I see you're surprised. Did you never suspect?"

The whirring noise started again, and he found himself rotating, slowly enough that even had he been prone to it he would have avoided motion sickness.

Across the room from him were columns filled with what looked to be bodies entombed forever in formaldehyde. He was familiar enough with the substance, having spent copious amounts of class time enshrining baby pigs.

Also familiar were the bodies, men he knew through Leila. She had once affectionately referred to them as "her Dork Troop", a group of middle-aged gay men who had somehow or other all found their way into her little substitute family.

Why they were here, suspended in columns in a strange room, was baffling.

"You're going to join them, Terrence." His reflection assured him casually. "And I'm going to take your place."

The shock of finding himself waking up here, when he'd fallen asleep in his own bed, exhausted from celebrating his birthday with Leila -- and the men now dead (or asleep? he hoped he was wrong about them being dead) in this strange room -- was finally wearing off. "I don't understand. Who are you?"

His reflection pulled a look of mock distress. "Why, I'm Dr. Terrence Xolani Jordan, age forty, resident of Pilot Ridge." He responded. "I'm afraid that Ms. Gold will be most distressed to realize she's been dating a closeted gay man, but such is the way of life." And he sighed dramatically.

"Leila has been dating me," Terrence managed after a moment of shocked silence at this last odd revelation. "And I am not gay."

"You aren't, but I am, and unfortunately for you, you'll be joining the rest of the forty-and-over's there," He jerked his head toward the Dork Troop. "And I shall be taking your place. Didn't you ever wonder why you've never met a heterosexual man over forty in Pilot Ridge?"

Terrence had no answer; he had indeed wondered this, but had chalked it up to Vermont (and it's rather more liberal than average laws) holding appeal to the LGBT demographic. He certainly knew what it was like to be not only a minority, but held in contempt; there was a reason he had applied for citizenship in America rather than returning to South Africa.

His doppleganger smiled again. "I see you have. This," He gestured expansively, though Terrence couldn't follow the entire sweep of his arm, "is why. Welcome to the mother ship."

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Clarity Ryder
Retired

Cryokinesis

Warning: Tripping Hazard.

Posts: 74

May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 20, 2011 17:26:29 GMT -5

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Post by Clarity Ryder on May 20, 2011 17:26:29 GMT -5

(P)Re-Gifting

11:52 AM

Clarity had attempted to call her mother about five times in just the last hour. Of course it wouldn't go through, but she still held out some remote hope of her mother actually picking up.

She had the thought, Maybe mom's working today, and promptly dismissed it at the image of Hope at home, all alone on the beautiful family holiday that was practically made for mothers and daughters to spend together. Even if Clare had to spend the time alone, she'd be damned if she had reason to even think of her sister not being with their mother for this particular holiday.

Trying to call one last time, Clarity actually got the machine. That it had changed brought a lump to her throat. Instead of the three "Women of the House" saying the message together and trying hard not to laugh, it had changed to just Sera speaking in a politely disinterested tone.

"Hello, you've reached the Ryder residence. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

There wasn't even a "we" in there anymore. It was as if Sera Ryder was purposefully trying to erase her daughters. Hope hadn't even done anything wrong! It was all Clarity's fault, every last bit of it. Swallowing down the lump that felt grapefruit-sized, Clarity took a breath and began her message.

"Hi, mom. It's me. Clarity. I know I we haven't talked since I--" Her voice cracked and gave out, and she cleared her throat. "Since I... left. I'm sorry. I did call, but I guess you were busy. I just thought that maybe you'd-you'd pick up this time. It b-being Mother's Day a-and all." She was crying now, the hiccuping sobs building up in her chest. She finished hastily before she started the loud crying on the phone. "I love you, Mama. Happy Mother's Day. Say hi to Hope for me."

And with that, she hung up, curled into a ball, and prayed that her roommates didn't come back and come to investigate the loud, painful sobs that made their way out of her chest.

1:20 PM

After some time, Clarity's crying faded. The tears stopped coming, and she felt... empty. She needed something to do, and she cursed herself for being in such a hurry to get to Hammel that she only brought clothing and a fish. She saw the chocolates and card that she had bought but never signed or sent lying on her desk then, and she was across the room and ready to throw them out before she realized it. Then, standing over the garbage can, she had an idea. She had paid for these things, why not use them?

3:00 PM

Clare was finally feeling something again after the cold emptiness. And thankfully, it wasn't a negative emotion. It was hard to understand, but maybe it was like that TV commercial had said, The Joy of Giving, as that seemed to be the closest thing she could find to explain her emotion.

There was a rush, too, in giving things anonymously. It was probably the most amazing thing she had felt in a long while. Also, the best idea. The chocolates--the fancy truffle kind with a hard shell and a creamy inside--were taken from the bag and split evenly between two baggies made from pink plastic wrap, tied with mint cloth-like floss in a bow, and the card was written in and prepared. All it would take now was some snooping, and she figured she was good enough at that for this plan to work.

First, to the place farthest away.
Elaine Tonaya's house was a place she could get permission to go to, as she had the perfect truthful excuse: Gift giving. Phone books, Clarity found, are very useful for the Anonymous Gifter, and she found the residence fairly easily. Once she was there, she left a bag of chocolates--this one with a piece of paper attached reading "Thank you for the cookies!"--and rang the doorbell, and then ran away at an all-out sprint. The reason for leaving the chocolate was to thank Ms. Tonaya for making such amazing cookies. Clarity had seen some at the flower shop, just once, and nearly cried because they tasted so amazing, and they reminded her of days in the kitchen with her sister, making deals that Clare would do everything else, and they would make cookies any time they wanted, but Hope had to stir the dough.

It was exactly what she needed, whether anyone in the universe knew or not.

3:42 PM

The second stop was easier, because it was in Hammel.
Miss Midori Hawkins didn't have to get hers until after Mother's Day, and that was probably just as well, seeing how the place Clarity was leaving the second bag of chocolates and the card was her office at the Institute, and not at her house.

Before leaving, hoping she wouldn't get caught and questioned for no reason, Clarity read the card again. It said, in pre-printed, loopy text, "Happy Mother's Day!" Then, in Clarity's girlish scrawl, it read:

Happy Mother's Day, Miss Midori.

I know you're not my mother, but I figure you are a mother, and this is me showing my appreciation to you, as a mother, on Mother's Day. You were my recruiter, and I thought I could show some sort of appreciation in this way, since I can't seem to thank you enough for bringing me to Hammel in any other.
It may not have entirely been your doing, but I still have you to thank for being there, and for personally explaining things.
You picked me up and brushed me off, figuratively, anyway, and brought me here.
Thank You, Thank You, Thank you!!

Proud of her work, and not embarrassed in the least to be writing things like that in a card thanks to the anonymity, Clarity left the card and the chocolates, and, smiling, returned to her dorm room.
Her mother hadn't returned her call, but strangely, Clarity didn't care all that much anymore.

For now at least, it was simply a beautiful Mother's Day.

Last Edit: May 23, 2011 17:03:56 GMT -5 by Clarity Ryder

xoxo
-- ♥

Catherine Novella
Retired

University of Vermont
Creation Psychometry
Played By Cat

Posts: 452

May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 20, 2011 22:21:23 GMT -5

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Post by Catherine Novella on May 20, 2011 22:21:23 GMT -5

Actions Speak Louder than the Three Little Words.

Six Years Old. The Friday before Mothers Day.

Catherine looked at the other kids. They were all sitting there coloring, putting glitter, and other things on the card for their own mothers. She looked to her left, there was other girls. To her right were the boys. All were so absorbed in their card making not a single one noticed her not doing anything. She slowly picked up one crayon. One red Crayon. Slowly but surely she drew a heart. A Bright, Fully colored Heart. That was all. Her teacher came over to her with a soft smile, “Kitty Cat why only a heart? Why not the words?”

She had thought long and hard about why. Why she didn’t have any words, Where there was not a single letter. She thought about it with a clarity a six year old should not. But she did. She was Thinking about it with a calm serenity and looked up at her teacher. “Mommy doesn’t need them.”

The teacher looked at her young charge. She was puzzled but knew that Catherine Novella was one of the most adamant children to be in her class. Cat and her mother had just moved here two years ago. The teacher looked at her young charge again. Maybe she didn’t need the words. Words always messed things up in the end anyway. They took a feeling and tried to explain it. But why did a six year old know that? She shook her head and smiled down at the girl. “Some words need to be spoken, or else you may never get the chance to say them.”

Catherine looked up at her teacher. Frowning Catherine replied, “ Mommy knows. She doesn’t need it.” She looked up at her teacher. She should understand. She should. Why wasn’t she understanding? Deciding to ignore her teacher Catherine took up another crayon. She slowly but surely drew another heart on the other side. This one was blue. Catherine looked up at her teacher. “Mommy doesn’t need the words. She knows.”

When Catherine got home that night she quietly gave the card to her mother. Her mother rejoiced that her daughter had given her the card. This was her baby girl, the one she would give her life to protect. Lilly looked at her daughter. Since moving here two years ago it was her pride and joy to raise he daughter. She would do anything to protect her. She was a little curious as to why her daughter did not have a word on the card. Just a heart. “Kitty Cat why are there no words?”

Catherine looked up at her mother. “You told me actions speak louder then words.” Looking up at her mother Catherine gave her mother a hug. “Love you Mommy.”

Sixteen Years Old. Mothers Day.

She looked at the others. They all were gone. Her day started the same. A couple of kids in the room next to her with a card and a pen. Why couldn’t it be that simple? That easy. She regretted not writing the words. She regretted keeping them to herself. That was one thing she always missed on mothers day. Saying those small but important words. She thought back to what she had said. Actions spoke louder then words? Cat felt herself tear up. If she had one more minute with her mother she would have said those words. Those three words.

She went into the house that she and her grandmother had lived in for eight years. She walked up to her grandmother who welcomed her with open arms. Her grandmother had become the mother Cat lost that day. She was the one who was there to scold her, to help her along, to talk about the things that just needed to be talked about. “She knows right?”

Cat looked at her grandmother with that same clarity she had all those years ago as she looked at her teacher. She watched her grand mother think and act. She knew her grandmother knew what she was talking about. Those three words. She thought long and hard about asking her grandmother about it. She knew it was painful for both but it was something that must be said.

Her Grandmother looked at her granddaughter. It was time. Time to show her the diary. The one her daughter had written. She slowly got up from her chair where her granddaughter was hugging her. As quickly as she could she shuffled her way to an old trunk she kept at the foot of her bed. Silently she opened it up and took out the blankets one by one. A the Very bottom of the trunk was a leather bound book. It was quite old but it was from Catherine’s mother. The grandmother flipped to a certain entry on a certain page. Silently she held it out for Catherine to read.

My darling daughter came home today with a picture for me. It was of a plain red heart. I had learned from her teacher that everyone else’s in the class wrote, “happy Mother’s Day” or “I love you Mom”. But when my darling daughter came home with just a heart I was surprised. With only a heart I asked her why. Why there were no words, No nothing except for a heart. My Darling girl came up to me and told me she loved me. She told me actions spoke louder then words. And then she hugged me. Where did my darling girl learn to be so wise? I beam with pride at the thought of her. She is my daughter. My only daughter. You could never ask for a better gift then those three little words.

Cat read through the entry. She knew what this was. It was a diary. Her power took over. It told her what was going on. She knew her mother truly meant what she wrote. She felt the love that her mother had for her. She felt the emotions of her mom run through her. They went through her. They moved her. Maybe those words were enough? Maybe she should listen to her six year old self and think about those three little words.

Cat Looked at her Grandmother before she was leaving. She saw the tears in her eyes. “Thank you” With that Cat walked out and took a bus back to Hammel. In her suitcase was a Brown leather book with a page bookmarked. On the very bottom of the page in Cat’s own handwriting was the words Actions speak louder then words and sometimes the three little words you can say without ever moving you mouth.

Last Edit: May 20, 2011 23:14:16 GMT -5 by Catherine Novella

Eve Delacroix
Retired

Powers Trainer
Retrograde Deconstruction

A terre.

Posts: 31

May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 21, 2011 17:13:38 GMT -5

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Post by Eve Delacroix on May 21, 2011 17:13:38 GMT -5

A Holiday in the Delacroix Household (Calls For Booze. Lots.)

Mother's Day, in England, was a world-renowned holiday mostly remembered for the pre-festival rush on roses, mostly by men whom had forgotten that the holiday existed and, yes, they still needed to get a gift, and zippo lighters from a gas station would get them a week's worth of Sleeping On The Couch With Cold Stares.

Fortunately for Eve, her father had not only remembered to buy her mother a Mother's Day present, but she had done as well. The Delacroix household was free of long, freezing looks and hurt little sighs. The Banshee of Forgotten Holidays had not made a visit this year.

It was eight in the morning, and the hour was nowhere near late enough for her to be up. As a former soldier, she'd gotten up at ungodly hours all the time, stayed up when the orders demanded that she stay up, and sometimes even when the orders didn't specify. As a civilian, she wished that someone had put a metal spike through the bloody cockerel's head in preperation for Thanksgiving.

"Turkeys," Eve mumbled to herself, too sleepy still to iron out her holidays and associated foods mentally, and in peace, "it's turkies for Thanksgiving."

In response, the lump of blankets to her right formerly known as Young grunted - a manly and somewhat supportive grunt that was meant to mean anything from 'I love you' to 'please stop talking'. Evie took it to mean the latter, since the other option required working up enough energy to slap her poor boyfriend upside the head, and snuggled into his back.

"'m not ready to get up yet," Young whimpered, "your grandmother's out there, waiting for me. She's like a, a... those cats that hide in long grass."

"She thinks you're cute," Evie grinned, brushing her fingertips over his neck.

"Eve, I'm lucky if she doesn't hit me with her cane every time she sees me. The other day," Young shifted, sitting up in bed, since Evie was being an unsociable sort and had opened the curtains wide enough to let in blaring rays of sunlight, "the other day, she ran me down and asked me what we were going to do about those Germans. I don't think 'Give them bratwurst' was the answer she wanted."

"She's a little old lady, Young." And now that the curtains were open, Evie shoved open the window, oblivious to the icy chill that suddenly made Young's blankets crawl up to cover his head and shoulders as well, "how fast can she run? Or hit?"

"Evie, she is the only reason I believe you Brits still have a license to kill," Young warned her, and flumped out of bed to make his way to the bathroom. "I bet she has a knife in her cane," he added, mostly to nobody.

Evie shook her head when the door was safely closed, and sighed. "Like a cane that small would fit a knife. A stiletto, maybe."

And with that note, she made a point not to let Young near her grandmother or her cane at any point whatsoever during the day.

. . .

Little Old Lady Delacroix was into her third sherry of the afternoon, and so far, had taken to stroking the couch cushion like it was her (horrible) Maltese poodle Schutzi, mistaking her father for the butler, and addressing Young as 'Mister Churchill'.

Young looked properly afraid and if he clung to the side of the couch any more, he was going to fall off and Evie couldn't get close enough to grab her cane away from her before she jabbed Young with it - should he fall on the ground.

"And you know who's behind all this, right?!" Little Old Lady Delacroix bellowed, waving her glass like a victory day banner, "the KGB! They're everywhere. Everywhere. Even in the fridge. There's a tracking device underneath the sticker of the Meadowlea carton that's there to track people."

"Of course, yes. Hmm." Young nodded his head, a smile twitching at his lips, despite the potentially life-threatening situation. That was precisely the wrong expression to wear.

But Evie had fallen into her grandmother's spotlight gaze, and behind the round spectacles, her eyes gleamed. Not for once that afternoon, Evie considered fleeing the entire sordid scene - away from her mother, who was swearing in the kitchen like a newly docked sailor, and her father, whom had taken refuge in the attic like a ghost, and definitely her grandmother, who had just leaned over and grabbed her cheek like it was a flapjack.

"You're so pretty," the woman said, and laid a powdery kiss on Eve's other cheek. "So pretty. Mister Churchill should do right by you."

Expression softening, Evie slung her arms around her grandmother's shoulders and kissed the top of her blue-rinsed head. Young leaned back, relaxing a little, his smile much fonder now that the woman had stopped paying attention to him.

"Promise not to stab him in the kneecaps, Nan?" Evie asked, her voice soft and low.

The old woman cackled, giving her a saucy wink. "I'll aim a lot higher than that, dearie!"

. . .

Young had Mysteriously Vanished. Shortly after her grandmother's admission, he'd gotten a call from the CIA or the FBI or, hell, the KGB, since his mumbled words had only been useful to exact that it was purely a three letter name, and he'd completely vanished into the aether.

Her grandmother had passed out asleep somewhere between her fifth and sixth sherry, but not before warning her that the moon-landing was a hoax, and that a CIA agent with the name of 'HotSpy24' had told her.

There were only a few places that Young could go to hide. As vast and grand as the house was, most of the rooms were either locked, had the locks broken, or had keys missing - as far as houses went, it was more 'Silent Hill' than 'Peaceful Rest'. The attic was a probable hiding place. The gardens, too.

Evie opted for the attic first, and when she pushed in the trapdoor and managed to work her way up the narrow steps in a pencil skirt and a pair of boots that were not made for walking, what she found made her laugh.

Her father, her mother and Young were seated on the floor with a plate of sandwiches, wine poured into old science beakers from a chemistry set that had never been used, and with a pack of cards in the middle. Pulling her skirt up a little higher to avoid having to dance about on the spot while she figured out how to sit, Evie perched next to Young, and nicked the rest of his sandwich.

"Is she asleep?"

"Like a baby," Evie promised, tearing off a piece of the sandwich and popping it into her mouth. "Oh, the moon landing was a hoax."

"Huh. So we can put that along with the other hoaxes, like..." her father's brows, graying with age, beetled, "... Ronald Reagan becoming President. The Gettysburg address. The 34th parallel. Bermuda triangle."

Giggling, Evie leaned over the stockpile of cards and booze to kiss her mother's cheek. "Happy Mother's Day, Mum."

Last Edit: May 21, 2011 17:14:24 GMT -5 by Eve Delacroix

Dr. Sean Neville
Institute Official

Psychiatrist
Telepathy/Memory Manipulation
Played By Sean

The One and Only Seangularity

Posts: 8,987

Gender:: Male

May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day May 25, 2011 23:27:30 GMT -5

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Post by Dr. Sean Neville on May 25, 2011 23:27:30 GMT -5

Loves Me Like a Rock

I'm a consecrated boy
I'm a singer in a Sunday choir
Oh, my mama loves, she loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me

His father was at the office. His sister was in school. And twelve-year-old Sean Neville had been charged with the task of packing his entire life into a couple of suitcases and a book bag. He’d never really noticed how much stuff he owned until he realized he couldn’t take it all with him.

The task was daunting.

He tried to be practical about it: making sure to take all of his uniforms for school hours and enough clothing for afterwards, and his good shoes, since it was important to have sturdy polished shoes at school; that was what his parents always taught him. He packed his sneakers for gym or just for walking around on weekends since he wouldn’t get to come home on weekends. He took his toothbrush because that was important and a bottle of aspirin because he might die without it. He packed his baseball glove in case he made any friends who might want to play ball with him.

That was a long shot.

It wasn’t that he’d never had friends; he had – he’d had – a bunch but that was when he was just a normal kid. Now he was different. At least he wasn’t crazy; both Father Benedict and the man from the school had been adamant about that. But he wasn’t all that sure this was really a blessing, like Father Benedict said it was. Sean didn’t think his priest would lie to him, Heaven forbid. It was only that he didn’t think that the holy man truly understood what he was talking about. The man from the school didn’t think it was a blessing, but he did think it was “perfectly natural.” He wasn’t a freak, but whatever mechanism God used to lock them all in their own heads and bodies was broken in Sean. And it hurt and it scared him. And it scared other people too which was why none of his old friends talked to him anymore.

It was why he didn’t have much hope that he’d make new friends.

He was in the middle of picking through his books for the ones he absolutely couldn’t live without when he heard a knock on his door. Then the door opened before he could say anything.

“Are you almost packed?”

“I guess.” He made a vague gesture at the piles of books next to the mostly-filled suitcases. The worst of the packing was done in terms of bulk, but now he had the hard choices to make about what to bring.

His mother stepped around the piles on the floor and moved to sit on his bed. “Did you remember to pack your bible?”

He nodded. He would never forget to pack that.

“Good.” She nodded with approval and gave him a small smile. Her smiles had always been easy to decipher, but they were harder now. Everything was harder now, because he felt like there was a curtain that masked the world, and sometimes it would pull back and he didn’t usually like what he saw. But the curtains were down at the moment, and he preferred it that way.

Then there was silence. That had happened a lot over the past few months, because nobody knew what to say with him. Sean didn’t like that much either, because he never used to have that problem with his mother. They’d always been close. Particularly since there were so many things he couldn’t speak to his father about, not without the fear of disappointing him.

She picked up on what was bothering him and spoke gently. “Everything will be fine. We looked into the school, and they have a good reputation. You know we would never send you somewhere you could get hurt.”

Sean did know that. That didn’t make it any easier to have to leave home so soon, and for this reason. “What if no one likes me?”

“Your teachers will like you. You’re always so well-behaved.”

“What about the other kids?”

His mother patted the edge of the bed next to her, encouraging him to sit beside her. Sean did, clasping his hands in his lap. His mother reached out and laid her hand on knee, squeezing gently. “The other students will like you because you’re sweet, caring, and smart. And if they don’t at first, I promise that they will like you in time.”

Sean didn’t know if that was true, but he desperately wanted to believe it was. In a hushed voice, he admitted, “I just don’t want to be alone.” Hushed because he was voicing a weakness, something he wasn’t supposed to have because he was the oldest and he was a boy.

Then his mother became quiet. He knew what she was thinking; even without hearing it, he knew what she was thinking. His parents were still awkward about what Father Benedict called his blessing and what the man from the school said was telepathy. It was scary to think that people could listen in on your head or that they could make you forget; that their son had been doing both for the past few months.

As scary as it was for them, it was scarier for Sean. He didn’t want to do it, and he couldn’t help himself. His parents didn’t talk about it with him; they danced around the topic which only made him feel more ashamed. And he was afraid to bring it up.

His mother danced around it again. Instead of saying what she was thinking or asking if it was even possible for him to really be alone anymore she changed the subject.

“I brought you something.” Reaching into the pocket on her skirt, she pulled out the small round case: gilded on the outside.

Sean took it eagerly in his hands and flipped it over; the initials MCN were carved into the back, the Blessed Mother was embossed on the front, and he recognized the object immediately. A rosary case. “This is yours,” he said, hushed, as he popped it open.

The prayer beads were made of silver and the crucifix glimmered in the light. It was much nicer than his.

“I wanted you to have it,” she told him, covering his hand with hers and using both to shut the lid. “To remind you of me while you’re at school.”

The twelve-year-old was touched. Clutching the box in his hand, he turned and then took her up in a fierce hug. “I’ll always think of you, Mom.” How could he not? He was going off to a strange place far away from the family.

She returned the hug, and he felt her lips on the crown of his head. "That's a good boy." After a long moment she pulled back, ending the embrace. "Now you finish packing before the man from the school gets here."

You want to graduate? Listen to Sean talk about condoms.

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May Writing Challenge: Happy Mother's Day

Post by Admin! on May 4, 2011 22:26:06 GMT -5

Post by Rhett Goddard on May 6, 2011 10:23:30 GMT -5

Post by Eliora Ish-Shalom on May 6, 2011 19:37:34 GMT -5

Post by Danny Silverman on May 9, 2011 13:57:14 GMT -5

Post by Elaine Tonaya on May 16, 2011 23:34:36 GMT -5

Post by Cobalt Weaver on May 17, 2011 1:46:08 GMT -5

Post by Dr. Terrence Jordan on May 19, 2011 16:38:09 GMT -5

Post by Clarity Ryder on May 20, 2011 17:26:29 GMT -5

Post by Catherine Novella on May 20, 2011 22:21:23 GMT -5

Post by Eve Delacroix on May 21, 2011 17:13:38 GMT -5

Post by Dr. Sean Neville on May 25, 2011 23:27:30 GMT -5

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