Hi!
Well, seems like I'm back on the FFML! Couldn't do it all summer
(for reasons that should be obvious below -- if you read that far), and my
computer was busted for most of September. But I'm back, and glad to see
the FFMl is still up and running (you never know what could happen in four
months...)
Haven't worked on fics much -- busy with school and work and
stuff, but, for those who have followed my fics, and wondering if I am
gonna continue them . . . yes, I will. I hope. Soon. As soon as I get
organized. (heh). I still have every intention of finishing Choices.
Someday.
I also owe the FFML in general a 'thank you'. It gave me forum
for practicing my writing -- and I had (and still do) a great time writing
fanfics. Practice, along with the great feedback I got (some of the
C&Cers out there are phenomonal), I really think I've gotten better at
writing -- just compare something like my first (One Bad Day), with some
of my later stuff (Snapshot). And it's largely thanks to you guys.
On that, I got into a 4th-year Writing Workshop at my University
-- acceptance was based on a portfolio submission -- and I used Snapshot
as one of my submissions. I still wonder what the teacher thought of
getting a Ranma story, it must've been a bit confusing ("err... so he's a
_girl_ now? And where'd that pig come from? Why's that girl so angry?").
Anyway, if I've gotten any better at writing in the last little bit, it's
thanks to you guys, and to the existance of something like the FFML.
Anyway, I figured I'd include the first story I've written for my
workshop class so far. It's somewhat auto-biographical, and kinda
explains what I did this summer. It's also totally non-anime, so I don't
really expect anyone to read it... <grin> But if you do, let me know what
you think! I still need to revise it (I had, like, a day to write
it, so it's still a bit rough and short) before submitting it for final
grading, so C&C, as usual, is greatly appreciated!
Later!
-Mike Noakes
***
Ceremonial Guard
He coulda been yawning or snarling. . .
-The Tragically Hip, Day for Night
The photograph is true: man and woman sitting at opposite ends
of a wooden bench, talking. He's leaning back, looking relaxed,
legs stretched out; she's sitting forward, attentive, legs crossed
at the knees. He appears to be polishing a pair of boots. She
holds the chanter of her bagpipe clasped loosely in both hands,
music notes and binder balanced on her thigh and secured by
both elbows. Her hair is brown, shoulder-length and very
straight, pulled back in a ponytail. Worn wooden steps rise
steeply next to them. Dappled shadow and sun textures the
image. The perspective is strange: taken from above, only the
top of their heads, shoulders, legs are visible; both their faces --
and expressions -- remain hidden.
David put aside his Kiwi polish and turned to the girl next to
him. High pitched squeals escaped from her pipe as she
practiced a Scottish marching tune. She lowered the instrument
to turn the page. He tried to appear relaxed.
"Say," he started.
"Yes?"
"Would you, ah, like to go grab an ice cream?"
Did she smile slightly? Did she lean closer?
"I'd love to!" She hesitated for a moment. "But I don't
have any money. I left my wallet back at the barracks."
He shrugged. "Don't worry. I'll cover you. You can
resi . . . recipocr. . ."
"Reciprocate?"
"Er, yeah." He smiled wanly. "Next time you work the
House when four Div. does."
"Really? You sure?"
"Yeah. Let's go!"
_Click_.
Nothing strange about going for an ice cream, David thought. I
should cool down while I can. It is a hot day, after all, and I've
been wearing a wool tunic in the sun. And what's wrong with
wanting a little company?
"I didn't know there was an ice-cream place around
here," she said.
"Oh. There isn't that I know of. But I saw a dickie-dee
pull up while doing sentry at the Gate," he answered, thinking,
dammit, what was her name again?
"Great! I'm going to get one of those red ones. . . ."
"With the vanilla inside? Yeah, me too." Did she tell
me? Does she know mine?
They walked the road from the Governor General's
house to the front gate, talking, finding new subjects, pursuing
them. She was in Engineering at Queen's; he had done two
years of Engineering at Ottawa. They talked about the
initiation: the torture, the song ('We are, we are, we are, we are,
we are the Engineers. . .'), the drinking; they compared the
differences between Band and Footguard reservist training.
About halfway to the gate the relief passed them, four scarlet-
clad guards and their corporal, led by a massive bagpiper
wailing away on his instrument.
"Do you have another shift coming up?"
"Errr, yeah. You have the time?" She offered her
watch, he checked. "In about an hour."
They passed by the Gate sentry boxes just as the hourly
gathering of tourists -- mostly Asians, with a healthy dash of
French-Canadians and the occasional Scandinavian mixed in --
broke away and either wandered towards the house or flocked
back to their tour buses. David cast a quick glance at his stiff-
backed coworker standing guard: the uniform dress and
bearskin blurred differences, but by now he was used to picking
friends out by their mouth and chin. He rarely left the
guardhouse between shifts, and so it felt odd seeing someone
else standing sentry on 'his' beat. Do I look that tense up there,
he wondered, because he looks like he's about to explode.
David liked to think he cut the posterboy image of a guard:
solid, unmoving and unflinching, strong chin and piercing gaze
glinting through the bear-hair, thin-lipped with the slightest hint
of a frown or scowl at mouth's edge with mind utterly focused
on the task at hand. If he did, of course, it was all lie: mostly he
tried casting surreptitious glances at the cute girls walking by,
or subtly (he hoped subtly) shifted his weight forward and back,
side to side on his feet to alleviate hotspots; thoughts were
fleeting and scattered, all-over the place as eyes settled on
gathering tourists, and often anger was generated and focused at
the crowd, at all those idiots with nothing better to do in thirty-
plus degree weather than watch a toy soldier not move, and take
pictures to prove that they had, in fact, been to Ottawa -- false
anger was better than smiling and being docked a day's pay.
David didn't look at his friend for long: tourists were
easy to ignore, but friends, family, and coworkers were the
worse. At the dickie-dee, the piper-girl asked for the red
popsicle with vanilla inside; they had none, but the girl running
the stand suggested the Banana Supreme, assuring them it was
vanilla-filled. David bought two. Walking back to the
guardhouse with rapidly-melting ice-cream, they discovered that
the vendor had lied: the inside was banana-flavored. David was
disappointed.
"Ki - i - i - ng. . ." chanted David's roommate upon their return
to the barracks that night.
"What?"
"Saw you with the piper."
"So?"
"Would you like an ice cream?" A mimetic lilt to his
voice.
"Yeah. So?" Guarded.
"Putting the moves on her, eh? Smooth." He had an
annoying way of drawing out the end of each sentence, the
suggestion of something lewd hovering unsaid.
"No." David turned away to pick up his boots. They
needed polishing. "We just grabbed an ice cream together."
Not even an ice cream: just a bloody popsicle.
"Yeah, right."
"S'true. I just wanted the company." And then, for
some reason, he added, "and she didn't have any money, so I
paid for her."
"You paid for her?"
"Oh, c'mon, it was only a coupla bucks. And she's
gonna pay me back next time. It doesn't mean anything."
"Yeah? Then why haven't you ever bought me an ice
cream?"
"'Cus you're my fuckin' roommate."
Of course, that was only the first instance. Later, the
two girls from his division confronted him in the hall. They
were giggling.
"It's so cute!" the one said, while the other added,
"She's nice."
"C'mon guys! It was just. . ."
"We overheard the whole thing."
"What?"
"We listened from the balcony above."
"You what?" David felt himself blush slightly.
"Good job, King!" said the first; "Go for it!" added her
friend.
Even the higher-ups got into it. When another guy from
David's section talked to the piper-girl, the Master Corporal
gave him mock-shit. "You're mowing King's grass! Back off,
blade!" The other Master Corporal asked for regular
updates. "You gone out with her?", "She play the skin flute?",
and even less subtly, "You fucked her yet?"
The whole thing was getting annoying. And it took
David a week before he found out what her last name was:
Choubette.
The next time David and 'his piper-girl' (as she was now
known) met, aside for a few brief exchanges in passing before a
morning parade or in the cafeteria, was in between afternoon
classes. He was on a fifteen minute break and sitting alone
outside the classroom, reading The Old Man and the Sea; the
rest of the platoon was over by Abstentions (the local snack
bar), or in the arcade, or outside smoking.
He slid the book into his pocket when she approached.
"Err, hello."
"Hi!" She had her chanter and music notes with her.
"Practicing?"
She nodded. "I've got the afternoon off, but . . . well, I
missed the cut-off on the parade this morning, and messed-up a
few times, so Sergeant 'suggested' I get a bit more practice in."
Choubette shrugged. "I don't mind. What are you guys up to?"
"N.B.C.D. classes."
"Oh, cool! We did that back in basic. Fun stuff."
"I dunno. It's creepy and I'm kinda worried about that
gas hut thing."
"Don't worry, it's nothing."
They continued talking: chemical and biological agents,
engineering, music, university; and as they talked, David
noticed the other recruits return one by one. He felt an
unexpected nervousness within, let the guys who joined in the
conversation carry most of it, backed off slightly from the circle.
Then he heard it: "Ki - i - i - ng. . ." And then, whispered and
not-so-subtle interjections by others: "go for it, King," and "how
'bout some ice cream," and "I'd sure love a popsicle!" He felt
himself blush, was sure she could tell, could hear the jerks,
couldn't meet her face as she continued the conversation,
suggestive peripheral voices circling, subliminal.
The Lieutenant called the class in and he escaped,
suddenly wondering if it mattered if she heard, or knew. What
was there to know? A bunch of moronic jock-type army
wannabees who talked tough but probably hadn't been laid in
years spouting joking gibberish and distorting a mere
conversation and popsicle purchase into an affair - surely she
could see through the idiocy of it.
The teasing continued in-class, to which David offered a
pointless defense, until the officer brought the class to order. As
he began to take notes, David suddenly wondered what
Choubette thought of being 'his' little pipergirl.
A few days later the company went on three day leave. When
he got back, a surprise was waiting on his door.
A picture:
David and Gail sitting at opposite ends of a wooden
bench, talking. He is leaning back, a little tense around the
shoulders, legs stretched out; she's sitting forward, attentive,
legs crossed at the knees. He is polishing a pair of boots. She
holds the chanter of her bagpipe clasped loosely in both hands,
music notes and binder balanced on her thigh and secured by
both elbows. Her hair is brown, shoulder-length and very
straight, pulled back in a ponytail. Worn wooden steps rise
steeply next to them. Dappled shadow and sun textures the
image. Taken from the guardshack's balcony above, only the
top of their heads, shoulders, legs are visible; both their faces
remain hidden.
The girl from his section had taken it that day at the
house, while eavesdropping. She had attached two little word
balloons: "Say, would you like to join me for ice cream," the
image of him was saying, to which Choubette replied, "I'd love
to, but you know King, I really would appreciate it if you
wouldn't sit so close, hee hee." The funny thing was, the
picture had been taken at the exact moment that he had asked
her to join him for ice cream. And he had to admit, the
photograph was funny. Although untrue.
David left the photograph pinned to his door for the rest
of the summer. And he wondered, why was I sitting so far from
her?
***
Later!
(And it's nifty to be back...)
-Mike Noakes
* * * * * * * * * *
There they stood, ranged along the hillside, met* E-mail at:
To view the last of me, a living frame * s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame * Homepage/Fanfiction:
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet * aix2.uottawa.ca/~s669330
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, * * * * * * * * *
And blew. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._"
-Robert Browing, "Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came" (34)
* * * * * * * * * *