On Seeing Sunlight...It was a square of sunlight,luminescent through the cotton fabricbringing the leaves on the curtains to life.It was a raft to catch hold of an ephemeral thing,a wafer of hopeready to dissolve, sweetly,on the pillow of my tongue.It was a small word spoken spring, spring, susurrating in the air.A promise of things to come.
Of SnowDihydrogen monoxide (when cold)is a slow and steady thing.A six-fold miracle,hiding cruelty (hiding grace)in microscopic smallness,only realised as we watch it coalesceto melt on a tongue, warm with life,to shroud the grass and the roofs and the roads,to pillow the pocked and fretted earth,and make it smooth again.To cover the eyelids of the dead,indiscriminate as dust.
DysfunctionYou called it your dried salt cod,and we laughed,remembering Shakespeare and Miltonand all the crudities of being eighteen.Strip lights on the ceilingand the subliminal buzzand windows wide as our ambitions.And over coffeeyou pinched a petal from the tulipthat stood at centre stage,and dropped it from your fingertips.And then your laugh stuttered a little.And slipped.
Talking of Blue...Talking of blue,I would say that the blue lighttraced the tracks of your veins,ripples in your skin.I would say that the blue waterdid little to hold you above it,for you were not buoyant.I would said that blue fingernails and blue lipswere not the fashion choice for winter.Concentration-camp-chic was not the in thing.You would say nothing,as I would try to warm you.
Star Trek: After MidnightStar Trek TOSPairing: Spock/ChapelRating: UChallenge Response One-shotIt was late in the lab. In fact, it was very late. Had Christine been working with any other officer she would have pleaded exhaustion and left for her quarters long before now. Hell, she hadn't even had dinner yet and she was pretty sure she'd missed lunch. That was how tired she was. She laughed a little at herself for that. She had been working so hard she could not even remember if she had eaten lunch.But Christine was working alongside Spock, and there was almost no incentive in the world that would make her give up before the task was completed. This antigen was important. Spock was a brilliant scientist, more qualified for this task even than McCoy but Spock was not a biochemist, and she was. He deemed her insight invaluable to the process, and she would not let him down. And since Spock would work ceaselessly until the antigen was perfected, she supposed she would have to do so with